A Loyal Friend
by TheBatKid
Summary: There's no peace for an Auditore man. (Sequel to 'A Better Friend.')
1. Old Husbands' Tales

**A Loyal Friend**

So long had he spent inside, Leonardo had almost forgotten what the sun looked like.

Venturing out, even into Monteriggioni, was a strange thing for him. The sunlight burned the ground and set aflame the glass; people hurried to and from market stalls, haggling with traders; a dottore sat in wait at his green wagon, beaked face expressionless and queer, but at the same time, comforting; the children that wallowed in the dusty clearing where grass turned brown and died; and somewhere in the distance, far beyond the walls, Leonardo could make out someone calling for the horseman.

It was not that he was anti-social – far from it. People came to him from near and far, and he was grateful for the company, offering to them whatever he could as a means of comfort. The simple fact was that he hated being outside, seeing the children so carefree and boisterous, when for so long his own son had been lost to him.

Two years had passed since he received Fiorentino's letter. The boy would have been a strong eighteen by then, grown into himself, perhaps, wherever it was he was hiding. Leonardo knew in his heart that the boy hadn't ventured far; he would have wanted to stay close, in case the unthinkable happened and he was needed to attend a funeral, or to help in a rescue effort.

_Well, _Leonardo thought with a sad smile; _Wherever Fee is, I hope he's happy._

Wandering soon found him in the inn, where he was known for renting rooms out to wealthy, distant travellers. He sat on one of the stalls where the barman kept his drinks; not a fond drinker, as they knew, he was slipped a complimentary fruit juice as so often he ordered it. When he reached to get his coin purse, the barman – a kind man, sixty years of age and still with strong shoulders and a straight spine – stopped him.

"Non pagare," he said with a smile; "About time we repaid the man who brings us so much business, no?"

Around him was the comfortable setting of a beautiful tavern crossed with an inn. A warm fireplace situated in the corner meant that it was never cold, which was a gift in the encroaching winter months, and surrounding it there were several chairs and tables, themselves made handsome with flowers, or the occasional decorative ornament. The walls were a cream, the wooden support beams used to hold them up having given them all the embellishment they were owed, though there was still a lone portrait of the innkeeper's wife in youth; a lovely lady, recently passed. The bar was a good sort – sturdy, clean, with another potted plant at the corner and several at the sides, bordering the stools. Leonardo had always enjoyed the way it looked more than drinking inside of it. It was one of the reasons he sent his guests to stay there; the Villa, while grand and glorious, had been cast with a depressive air since the disappearance of his son, with Angelo becoming moody and reclusive and Mario more dedicated than ever, and Ezio's occasional drop-ins met with Claudia asking for news of their nephew. The artist was not the only one suffering. Yet, he knew he was suffering the most, for he had cradled that boy as he learned to crawl, soothed him during storms, held him after kills, and made it known that his love was unconditional, not dictated by a Creed. He had lost a son, not a warrior. Not a nephew. Not a cousin.

It hurt him to think that he had no idea where Fee had gone to.

Sighing, Leonardo turned to look at the patrons of the inn. There were few at that time of day. Though well-lit, when he saw drinkers in the early afternoon, he imagined darkness hanging over them, dust layering bones too old or too drunk to work, and that the entire tavern changed according to their joint melancholy.

It was then that his eyes were drawn to a man sitting at the very back, closest to a window. The light that poured down on him revealed a well weathered face, wrinkles scoring down it like the lines on a map, and eyes to match the sadness in the air, sunk deep within sockets creased at the edges, big for the fact that his features were small. Their emerald depths were dull; no longer as bright as they were in youth, he mused.

His conscience tugged at him. With a small smile, Leonardo stood and moved to his table, where he sat across from him and began to make amicable conversation.

He discovered that the man, though old and quite infirm, with shaking hands barely capable of holding his ale mug, was quite intelligent. A farmer beforehand, he spoke of living in Romagna, relaying his many tales to the artist with a fond smile on his face.

"A wonderful place, even poor," he told him; "Mi manca la fattoria. I miss the evenings in the summertime, with my wife. I miss watching the children near the wetlands, before they were sent off back home. Lending a hand to help was one of my favourite things to do."

Leonardo nodded. Curious, he asked; "What made you leave?"

"I have family here. Three daughters married off to merchants, and a son to the innkeeper's girl."

"I think I remember that wedding," the artist said.

"I was at the farm, so I wouldn't know. They all made me come here when they thought I couldn't handle it anymore. And, seemed the best time to go, what with that teacher looking after things now."

Leonardo nodded. A man who reached his twilight years deserved rest, to face God when he still had strength enough to do so, but it was hard to walk away from an entire life's work and realise that it was over. He admired the farmer for doing what so many others would struggle to.

"Teacher?" the artist asked.

"Kind young lad; came in one day about a year ago and offered to teach the little ones. People were suspicious at first, but he's done a good job so far. Even takes up the chores they miss in school."

"Come stoico."

"Gave him what we could as payment, but he prefers to work for free. Only exchange he asks for is a bed and food, when we can."

Leonardo was intrigued. Such a man of charity was unheard of, and he found himself asking more questions about him. Names were the first, to which the farmer replied he went by an Adalfieri Zitoni, but he believed that not to be his name; his reason being that he had been a farmer a long time, and knew when people were lying.

It was revealed to the artist that the man was a handsome fellow, with a good enough education to teach and a wide enough knowledge to teach everything. He was a strange man, too – he lodged mainly with another young bachelor on the outskirts of town, when he was not required nearer the wetlands, and was a shy man, quiet and reserved when not teaching, with little to say about himself other than that he was taught by the most intelligent man in the world.

"He's a good enough man," the farmer said after a while, gulping his drink; "Don't mean anything by his quiet, I don't think. Wouldn't be around if he thought we weren't worth his time. Big eyes, though."

Leonardo stilled. Few times, eyes had warranted their own outlining. He knew of only one man the rule was taken away for; one son, his Fiorentino.

It was then that the artist began to realise that his heart lay in Romagna. Fee was there, using a name not given to him by Leonardo in the hopes that he would slip by undetected. The town was not close, but it was close enough to receive news quickly, and he was sure to have been keeping a good eye on them in the time he had been living there.

"He's still there?" the artist asked, trying not to seem too eager.

"Far as I know. Buon ragazzo." The farmer took another gulp, and then, with a fond smile, said; "I hope Romagna will prosper under him."


	2. Man of Romanga

That the sky was hot amber and the sun was setting meant nothing to Fiorentino.

His days in Romagna were not so much days as they were consistent hours of labour. The clouds that encroached on the beautiful pink canvas above, itself mixed with orange, white, and the remnants of a blue day, and he heard far from the fields he worked on children laughing to one another.

Much time had passed since he last saw his father. He missed him every day. Though there were memories in Tuscany he would rather forget, Fee felt compelled to stay close, to watch and be sure that his father was well, and to gather news on Monteriggioni where he could. Since the days of the workshop and the cool, welcoming shadows, his place of work had changed a great deal indeed.

His office was but an endless stretch of green, which until he had arrived had been crumpled brown. No so much a work of the mind, but more of hands, he kept fit through dragging what the wagons dropped off, tending to the animals when the farmers were with their families, and doing chores for those pregnant mothers who had lost their loved ones to disease. His mind was exercised through his greatest gift to Romagna's children; the gift of knowledge, of which he had plenty, and gave as generously as a man on a hunt for good fortune.

"Adalfieri!" he heard a cry, and once again took time to register that it was him being called. Once he turned, he saw on the horizon there the sure outline of a man – his friend and fellow bachelor, with whom he lodged with at a cosy cottage some miles from the wetlands.

"Cirocco!" he waved at him, a bright smile on his face as the man hurried towards him; "Deigned to visit me at the fields, eh?"

"The fields are better than that rundown place you call a school," he teased.

Cirocco was a slight man; thin, but muscular, with the whisper of a moustache atop his trembling pink lips. His eyes were small, copper-coloured, and he hopped nervously on one foot when under duress, rather like a rabbit with three paws instead of four. With short-cropped blond hair atop his head, he was oftentimes referred to as a fine horse-brush – a comment that had caused him to avoid the stables wherever possible. The way he looked at his friend, who now had been with him for the better part of a year, held an affection he had only seen in his father's eyes, and the eyes of young, impressionable Gian.

Cirocco was kind; the first time they had met, and Fiorentino had proved himself to be an asset to Romagna, he offered him the semi-permanent room that had been vacated since his brother's tragic death, with the exception of his visiting nephews staying there some nights a month. Something in his nature reminded Fee of a shivering puppy.

"A man of your intelligence shouldn't be out here, slaving away in the fields," he said, not for the first time; "He should be with the doctors and visionaries of our century; the true makers of history."

Fiorentino laughed, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his bright smile; "And then who would teach the children? Un medico ciarlatano? My skills are more needed here than they are at the sides of qualified men."

"Why do you act so selflessly?" he questioned, quick to follow as Fee went to his equipment, themselves dirty with soil and grass; "Never was there a man so kind that he'd sacrifice his own good fortune for the fortune of others."

"Then perhaps men should be kinder, or should look at the whole picture before he picks where he stands."

Cirocco rolled his eyes; "I worry for your health."

"How refreshing – most worry for my sanity."

They shared a laugh, and Fiorentino looked out at the fields. There was little he could do when the day grew dark. Foxes and wolves would arrive soon to terrorise the sheep, and the defences put in place would work to keep them at bay. The children had been working tirelessly throughout the week to learn to read, so the thought of calling them for a quick session was both unattractive and cruel to him.

"It seems my day is at its end," he said, and with the help of Cirocco collected up his tools; "How strange to finish it so early."

"It must be nearing le sette, Ada. To say this is early would be a gross exaggeration."

"I've been finishing at eleven most nights, since the winter chill set in." He pointed out. Together, they moved across the field towards a small shed, wherein Fiorentino had convinced the farmers to place their tools, all with labels on to encourage reading; "Seven o'clock is a gift."

He rolled his eyes; "I know you, friend. Tomorrow you will be up before the sun, help some damsel in distress in the wetlands, save Romagna from an impending outbreak, rid the world of rats, and housed every dog. Be careful that your superhuman ways don't land you in trouble."

"Ah, I doubt it," he joked; "If so, I'll blame it on you."

Jostling each other playfully, the pair relieved themselves of their burden and went ahead to the wetlands, where Fee would be sure the day's chores were done and he would be given the night off. That Cirocco had proved him so solid a friendship was a blessing. He worried not for the state of his mind, for he had someone to confide in, and the nightmares of his past misdeeds were becoming less and less. Not because he spoke about them; because they were becoming old, ancient haunts that he could pretend happened in a dream.

"Look, Ada," Cirocco nudged as they approached the place. "A ship."

The wetlands, no matter what sat in its docks, always made Fee sad to see.

Overrun was it with ruins, the weeds having broken through tar-like earth to snake their way up crumbling walls, and thrive in the ancient structure. An old clock tower stood, but the clock had long since rusted and stopped, to the point where even the most experienced craftsman would have called it an impossible venture to fix. It stood now to Fiorentino as the symbolism of the town; a place time had forgotten, and so had been left to rot away.

Cirocco was right. There was a ship in the docks – a grand thing, with burgundy arrases draped over the sides and a grand array of crewmen, all with matching outfits. The mast stood proud and erect, rather like some soldier in his regiment, and Fiorentino had to stifle rolling his eyes at the sight of uniformity.

At the wooden walkway, which had been rebuilt since Fee arrived, there stood the eldest of their residents; a man of sixty-four, who now people saw as Romagna's Lone Wise Man. He was infirm, relying on a walking stick and near sightless, cared for by a much younger wife, but his words were what gave him strength. Fiorentino was in awe of his integrity.

"Lorenzo," he called, and the man twitched at the sound of his name, wispy white hairs almost standing on end; "What's the meaning of all this? Un diplomatico o un uomo ricco? This seems too grand for our little town."

"Adalfieri. Good, I was hoping you'd come. Who's that with you?"

"Cirocco."

"Excellent. Wonderful. Two strong minds. I hardly believed it, when I was told. But my wife read the letter herself – much obliged for the lessons, Ada – it's all true."

"What's true?" asked Cirocco, folding his arms.

"Sì, what is this?"

The man fixed him with a toothless smile; "A Cardinal, boys. A Cardinal's come to visit Romagna."

"I don't believe it," Fee stiffened at the very idea. Cardinals were close to the Pope, and the Pope to him was a man who had sought the death of his family; the death of the Auditore's, and quite possible of Leonardo.

"It's quite true. But that's not all. It's not just a Cardinal. Isn't it a marvellous day, boys?" he turned short-sighted eyes to the sky, wherein the day was just coming to an end, and the moon was making itself known; "Cesare Borgia's come to make our acquaintance."


	3. With Care

Fee made his excuses. He had come down with a headache; his bones were too weary. His working on the field had exhausted him and left him unable to welcome guests. So convincing was his act that Cirocco grew concerned, ready to help him home if need be, to which he was thanked but told it was unnecessary.

The man left before Cesare made his appearance. Feeling sick to his stomach he walked, too fearful to look back, for the Borgia to him were the bringers of death, the chariots of his past, gold plated and stained in different shades of blood, with grinning faces that haunted him through night. To see one would be to remember his victims; those that were lured out with the promise of gold, and used as tools with which to delay the inevitable murders.

The moon above calmed him, at least enough to let his muscles ease. As the tension bled out into the air and he went on, hearing behind him the faint cry of some bird made nocturnal, he thought first of the family he had left at the Villa, and then of the life he had carved himself in Romagna.

He thought of Angelo, the kind young boy he had abandoned who had looked up to him so. He thought of Maria, with her small unyielding eyes and her seldom seen smile, which she reserved only for the happiest of news. He thought of Mario and Claudia, who together had given him board for two of the longest years of his life. His mind lingered over Ezio, the man that had put him on his path of moral destruction, believing it to be the only way he would survive in a world already so corrupt. No hate did he feel for his uncle – time again had changed him, and when he ruminated over his experiences with both blade and shadow, he realised he was well equipped for future hardships.

Then he thought of the dead men he had never met; Petruccio, Giovanni, and his blood-father Federico. So long had it been since he mused over the man, he had to stumble for his name. The time of boyish curiosity had passed and Fee had accepted that his father, whether or not he looked down on him in death, had never known him, and could feel no love in his heart for a child that was never truly his. It was that which led him quietly to the memories of his true father. Leonardo, the bearer of his emotions, the saviour of his soul, the comforter of his nightmares; it was the artist who had raised and winded him, taught him to walk and read, and so for Fiorentino there was no one better, no one more good, than the man who had first made the mistake of giving him to the assassins.

His memories served him until beyond, in the darkness, he made out the outline of the cottage he shared with Cirocco, and hurried on towards it. The grass beneath his boots squelched and he realised too late that it had started raining. Mentally, he cursed himself.

_Merda – you can't afford to get sick. Not now._

The cottage was a quaint thing on the outskirts of Romagna. Inside there were sturdy pieces of furniture, Cirocco having trained first as a carpenter before he was forced to take up farm work, and before her death his mother had stitched into them coarse fabrics with floral patterns. There were but two rooms on the first floor; the living room and the kitchen, wherein there was a rudimentary stove and a counter to eat their meals, as well as some cabinets built to home their cooking utensils. It was a wooden kitchen, so the colours were bland and tasteless. It would win no awards for its beauty, but in efficiency and general comfort, the cottage made up for its dullness.

Upstairs, there were two more rooms, and outside there was an outhouse. The cottage had at first belonged to Cirocco's father – a man he seldom talked about, for he feared him even in death. The rooms were allocated as such when he was a boy; he and his nine brothers and sisters were to stay in one bedroom, and his parents were given their own. Rarely had he ever thought it unfair. He had explained to Fiorentino, who himself had always had his own room or no room at all, that he and his siblings were content to be together, seeing as they were stronger as a team than they were alone.

Fiorentino had been told in depth one night, some three months into his stay, why it was Cirocco so hated his father.

"My father was a cruel man," he'd admitted as he laid back on a living room chair, drinking too little and remembering too much; "Un demone. When my brothers and sisters first began to get ill, he confined them to an old barn built for his animals. When they died, he burnt it down, and tried so desperately to 'repopulate his flock.'" Another swig of beer was taken then, he recalled. "Mother never had more children. Only my brother and I were left. When Father and Mother died, and I lost Gian, I knew…there was only me left."

And though Fiorentino had comforted him that night, it was Cirocco's brother's name that had brought his silence.

Gian. Gian Giacomo Caprotti. He missed the apprentice, in a way. He missed the constant harassment and the sly euphemisms, the unfinished pieces of work Fee always found with his foot. He sometimes even missed berating him for the amount of gold he spent; the many times he had pulled him from the tavern, he found him at least five hundred Florins lighter, and on one nightmarish occasion, two thousand. The important role he held as mediator in the boy's life – perhaps imagined – was lost the moment he chose to abandon them.

In the cottage, he fetched himself a drink of water and sat on one of the lounge chairs, thinking back. The life of an assassin was no life for him. It was no life for anyone. Ezio did it out of blind devotion to his father's cause and Fee had done it out of misfortune. He dreaded to think why Mario and Giovanni had followed that path.

Lighting a candle – the shadows were dense by that point – Fiorentino allowed himself to ruminate, and then felt his eyelids droop. It was no more than nine o'clock, but he had a long day ahead of him at the school, and afterwards he would be expected to tend to the fields and care for the animals. That was all coupled with the thought of avoiding Cesare at all costs.

_Adalfieri has nothing to fear, does he? _Fee thought as he closed his eyes, arms folded over his chest and the moonlight pouring in from the window to dance across his face. _Why should I hide myself away? What good will it do? They never knew my face. Adalfieri isn't their unknown murderer, is he?_

His squeezed eyelids twitched as he drifted off to the thought;

_But my name is Fiorentino._

In the next hour, Cirocco returned, spouting nonsense about Cesare and how considerate, how virtuous a Cardinal he was, before he saw the man he thought to be Adalfieri asleep. With care he put a blanket over him and stroked his hair down, smiling at him as he sat across on a different chair. It had become a ritual he was fond of, tending to Fiorentino when he slept, whether or not he realised the care put into it, or the affection with which it was done.

"Dormi bene, Ada," he muttered.

And on the mountains that bordered Romagna, so high that they shielded the path to Florence, there was a single torch flame that shone, held up by a blond haired artist riding on a Tuscan wagon.


	4. Rested

As Leonardo passed the border into Romagna, many things went through his mind.

The buildings on the outskirts of the main town were few and far between. The cart rumbled along roads in desperate need of repair, through dirt tracks bordered by bits of driftwood in the guise of fencing, and around buildings that were so old and worn, they were more like grudging old men who refused to see a doctor. There was a stench of manure in the air so strong it almost made his horses turn tail. Beyond, in the distance, he could make out the faint glow of torches that signalled the docks, where there was docked a large vessel, the outline of which Leonardo could only discern from the starless black sky.

The wagon continued on, and so he trundled through the main town, passing a fairly rundown building that must have been both the main hall and a school. He knew this only for a sign, carved in a slab of rock that sat at the top of the building; 'MUNICIPIO**.' **Beside it, there was a smaller, cruder sign, painted by what looked to be a child, which read; 'SCUOLA.'

He questioned an old man he passed for one Adalfieri, and was directed to the outskirts of the town at the opposite side. The trip would take him the better part of an hour, but such was his desire to see his son again that he hardly cared – the time would give him an opportunity to go over what he had to say.

Daylight was what he desired most. Romagna was ugly at the best of times, but darkness made it sinister. He could imagine in the fields a gang of ghost-children clambering over one another, desperate to find a world-weary soul, hungry for blood and organs best left unsaid. Even as he reasoned with himself that such tales were impossible – there had been many identical ones said of all farmlands – each crunch of leaves, each snapping of a twig left him on edge.

_Just hurry up, Leonardo! _He chastised himself, cracking the horses' reigns to make them move faster: _Are you a man or a mewling mouse? You haven't time for this!_

The cart went on.

When he reached the cottage, he was almost floored by the quaintness of it. He could imagine inside there to be a huddle of women, all with babes on their laps, nattering about husbands and their troubles at work, or of the symptoms of diseases that might inflict their young. As he reached out to knock on the door, a wild thought crossed his mind that perhaps Fee had gained himself a harem, and was 'sewing his wild oats' as it were.

_Don't be so stupid, man. Fiorentino blushes when you speak of a woman's hair._

Inside, he heard a voice grumble. A man's voice. It sounded tired, and when it came out behind the door he was tempted to walk away.

"Who is it?" the voice asked. It belonged quite obviously to a young man, one who didn't have the will to bark, for his tone was one of friendly curiosity rather than annoyance.

"My name is Leonardo da Vinci," he announced, nerves not reaching his voice, for it was steady and held more confidence than he felt; "I'm here to see someone – a man. I was told he was here, with you."

There was a moment's pause. Then, he heard the snap of the door's lock, and the entrance opened to reveal a man dressed in modest clothes, holding in his hand a brass, bent candleholder with a single wick.

He peered at him as though judging if he were honest. The man looked more a boy, timid and shy like his dear Fee, and in the back of his mind Leonardo longed to paint the long, lithe body he possessed, the curiously sharp features that were blunted only by the softness of youth.

"Who?" he asked; "Me? I'm Cirocco – Cirocco Acqua."

The artist shook his head; "No, no. I'm looking for a different man. Adalfieri Zitoni. Do you know him at all?"

Another moment's pause, this one stretching longer than the last for the fact that the boy did know who he was. He once again perceived Leonardo, perhaps to judge whether or not he felt he could trust him, and then nodded.

"He's sleeping right now. Is it important enough to wake him? He's worked hard on the fields."

Leonardo worried his bottom lip; "Is he very tired?"

"It's Romagna - Ogni uomo è stanco."

"Does he rise early?"

"Before sunrise, as far as I can tell, to help the pregnant and the elderly with chores."

That earned from Leonardo a smile. His son had kept up his good nature, it seemed; a trait of which assassination could never touch, and misfortune had yet to corrupt.

"I have a rather close history with Signor Zitoni," he explained; "I'm sure he won't mind being woken up, if only for a few minutes of his time."

Cirocco looked at him with what looked to be mistrust. The artist had no idea why; many had trusted him before, normally without him saying anything, and to now be scrutinised almost made him want to leave. But then he remembered that his son was inside that cottage, and he held firm against the boy's stare.

He disappeared inside the house, where the shadows were so dense they looked almost tangible. Moments later he had reappeared, still with the candleholder in his hand, and his eyes sparking a sort of fire.

"Adalfieri isn't waking up," he said; "If you like, I will take you to him, but he is very tired and I fear he will rip my head off if I wake him."

Leonardo laughed heartily; "I assure you, Adalfieri hasn't a bone in his body capable of such an act. Lead me to him, please, and I won't take any more of your time."

And as he was led through the cosy hallway, the artist's heart beat at a mile a moment, finally content with the thought he would see the boy he raised from a dribbling infant.


	5. Dreamlike

Dreams were a respite for Fiorentino, in a way. They gave to him a place where he could visit his father, be called by his name, and ruminant over things that had happened; things he still thought were a result of himself, rather than his rich, blood-soaked heritage.

A reoccurring nightmare – one that had plagued him since it happened, though never quite so vividly as in Romagna – was of his first botched mission. That is, an assassination that went wrong. So wrong, in fact, that it resulted in five additional deaths, one of a boy only some years older than himself, and it was this nightmare in which he was reminded his past was a vast pool of emptiness, with few glimmers of good.

Just as a spurt of crimson covered his eyes, Fee thought he heard his name. He looked up, beyond the dark ceiling that sat above him, the supports rotten and crawling with all manner of insects, and into a sky that was suddenly visible. Starlight beckoned him upwards; the moon itself spoke, calling ever so soft encouragements to him, urging him to wake with a mantra of 'Fee, Fee…wake up, Fee…'

The starlight melted. The moon transformed into two pairs of blue eyes, themselves sparkling and familiar, and Fee's vision allowed his surroundings to blur into existence as he was enthralled by them.

"Wake up, Fee," someone said again, and he saw Orion's belt becoming lips, moving to the sound of the voice; "That's it – wake up."

"That's not his name," came a confused injection. That voice Fee did recognise. In sudden clarity he looked to see Cirocco, arms folded as he leant against the wooden doorframe that led into the lounge, and his eyes widened a considerable amount.

"Don't panic, Fee. It's alright. You're safe."

That voice. That voice; he recognised it to be the angel in his dreams, the hero of his childhood and the saviour of his infancy, who had sacrificed so much only to watch him disappear. Slowly, as though he imagined the scene would fade away and he would be in the midst of a nightmare, Fee turned, seeing first the large, bulky furniture that held no discernible features, for the light of the candle was soft and orange, not strong enough to reach them, and then the kind blue eyes of none other than Leonardo da Vinci – famous painter, and his father.

Leonardo smiled. He saw the wild, untameable locks that sat on Fee's head in desperate need of a cut; the handsome, chiselled face he'd watch grow from soft to rugged; the lips that twitched in confusion and fear, only to pause and straighten; and lastly, the deep brown depths of his eyes, so kind as to be illegal, so mysterious that they inspired the greatest novelists to write books in his wake.

"Fee!" he said in a quiet voice. His son stood, and so did he, allowing the boy to take his face in two hands and inspect that he was real.

"That's not his name!" Cirocco insisted, though he watched the scene with interest – alarm, even. Copper-coloured eyes watched every move Fee made, both fascinated and distressed, while the arms remained folded over his chest.

"Maestro…" Fiorentino murmured; "Maestro…are you…are you really here?"

He nodded, tears in his eyes; "Sì, Fee. It's really me."

Stillness followed. Fiorentino, so surprised by his father's sudden arrival, failed to notice the way in which Cirocco perceived them, the way he uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, as though waiting for an explanation that was far from the boy's mind.

Then, he scooped Leonardo in a tight bear hug.

"Father!" he whooped, not caring for non-existent neighbours or the few people that might wander past their home; "My father! I've missed you so much!"

"And I you, my boy!" arms went around Fiorentino's back; "I thought the worst had happened when you never wrote again. Oh, how good it is to see you!"

They embraced for a long while. So long, in fact, that it was only with Cirocco's timid cough that Fee realised he was still in the room, and with a sheepish smile he looked up at him.

"Cirocco, friend – this is my father, Leonardo da Vinci."

"But your name is Adalfieri Zitoni," Cirocco's eyes narrowed; "Is it not?"

A pause followed, and then Fee gave a great sigh. He'd hoped that he would be able to tell the people of Romagna on his own terms; that he would have the chance to further prove himself a good man before the details of his past, or at least some of them surfaced. He'd never anticipated that his father would find him, much less miss him so much he would come looking.

Fiorentino shook his head; "No, non è il mio nome."

Cirocco's eyes narrowed even more. They became like too slits in the dark, barely noticeable in the candlelight, and his arms folded once more as he provided him a chance to explain.

The man took it with grace; "I have a long and secretive past, Cirocco, but know this – Maestro da Vinci saved me from certain death. By his hand I was raised, and by his name I lived my life. Troubles had me change it so as to protect not only myself, but all those I try and help."

"Then what _is_ your name, if you deign to give it to me?" his words were scathing, evidence of trust broken, which Fee mourned deeply in his heart.

"My name is Fiorentino da Vinci, of the Auditore bloodline," he answered. He saw no reason to keep it from him.

"Auditore? So all this time we've known each other, you never once thought to mention that you're of noble blood?" his teeth grit; "You chose to come here, to this land of farmers and drunkards, and mingle with your inferiors, hm? To a place where no one important ever comes, other than this Cardinal?!"

It was then that Fiorentino stopped him. Quickly he approached, halting just short of a few inches away, and spoke with such urgency that Cirocco forgot his anger.

"Listen to me, Cirocco – Cesare Borgia is not all that he appears," he warned; "That he would come here suggests some ulterior motive."

Leonardo, who had envisioned sunny days in luscious fields when meeting his son again, or sitting near water with the boy in arm, was silent. So enthralled was he by the sincerity of Fee's words that he hardly breathed; indeed, he caught the way Cirocco's eyes flashed at him, as though he were intruding on a ground meant for but him and Fiorentino, and in his heart he bled for the boy.

Nonetheless, he was hurt by Fee's betrayal, and acted so; "A nobleman in Romagna. A farmer, I thought. A teacher. I suppose it explains how you got to be so intelligent, hm?"

"Cirocco, I implore you-"

"I bear my soul to you a number of times, and you can't even tell me this?"

Fiorentino shook his head; "If I could-"

"Please, leave me be for a time," he said, holding up his hand with the palm facing towards him; "Talk with your father. I haven't the energy to argue."

As he moved to disappear up the stairs, Fiorentino went to follow him, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. He raised his head. Cirocco gave a great sigh.

"More visitors? This late at night? You haven't got a son I don't know about, have you?"

Fiorentino stiffened, but only for a moment.

A voice erupted from behind the door.

"Il Cardinale Guardia," came a deep bark, dialect from Rome; "We want the fugitive you're harbouring. You have until the count of ten before we break the door down."


	6. To All Cardinals

Cirocco threw Fee an alarmed look. The candleholder still in hand, the man almost toppled down the stairs, caught only by the swiftest of moves from his friend.

"Fee-!" Leonardo said, but was hushed by a frantic hand. Fiorentino had no wish to be caught that night, nor any other night that followed. Perhaps he was a coward; instead of the fear of the unknown, which gladly he would walk towards, but instead the fear of looking into the eyes of men more cruel than he, being denounced by those who were splattered with good men's blood.

The count went on outside – two, three, four.

"Cirocco, whatever happens next, please; run if I tell you to run. Do you understand me?" Fee needn't repeat the orders to his father. Such was Leonardo's trust in him, he would sell his soul to the Devil if his son said he had a plan to it.

Cirocco's eyes narrowed. In the dim light, Fee swore he saw in them distrust, but regardless his friend nodded. The situation called for exceptions to be made.

Seven, eight…

"Father," Fiorentino turned to him. With a hard hug, he muttered in his ear; "I will not die today. Che te lo prometto."

The door behind them almost erupted in a shower of wood chippings. The ornaments that stood at either side – things of porcelain, having belonged to Cirocco's mother – were shattered under the weight of a dozen men's boots as quickly, almost in the blink of an eye, they filled the narrow hallway. Fiorentino turned and ushered the pair behind him.

The guards were of varying shapes, but all with roughly the same size. There was a brute of a man lingering by the door who wore full body armour, and Fee could spy only one opening with which to attack him. Bloodlust ran through the eyes he saw, glinting in the moonlight that seeped into the hall, like a silver miasma intent on putting them all at ease.

Fiorentino clenched his fists as he sized them up. The tension reached its apex when he glanced to either side of him, seeing first a mirror on a small table he could break for shards, and then a painted portrait of Cirocco's beloved family.

_Let's hope I haven't forgotten all of what Mario taught me._

"Fiorentino da Vinci, you are wanted for the murder of several diplomats and Vatican officials across the states. We're placing you under arrest."

The leader – a tall fellow, with a twitching moustache and wicked eyes, rather like that of a honey badger before attack – moved forward to grab him. It was during this that Fee reached over to the mirror, smashing it against the wall and producing from it a large shard, and went about dispatching whoever stood closest to him.

To Cirocco, it was an almost unbelievable transformation. The man he'd known, so soft-spoken and intelligent, with such grace he was to the town what a gazelle was like to a nature-lover, had morphed into something totally different; something beyond even the wildest imagination. Crimson blood splattered his hall as one by one, each neck was sliced, and the dead piled on the floor like that of a butcher's shop.

There were screams. Screams so terrible he was forced to cover his ears. Leonardo pulled him close, perhaps spurred by some innate fatherly drive, and held him as though he were a quivering child.

For Fee, the complete disassociation with what was happening came as a relief. He was no longer Adalfieri, gentle farmer who taught the children; he became once more Fiorentino, the even-tempered child who had cried at others' pain, who held funerals for snails and read in his spare time. He was the murderer who was born a cherub. With the strength in his arms, exercised by farm work, so did more innocent meet their makers, and lose their lives.

When it was over, the adrenalin of the moment wore off.

He glanced first at the moon, which was fast covered by cloud. Then he looked at the bodies filling the hallway, corpses bloody and mutilated, with gaping aortas or jugulars on show, and began to tremble. Dropping the shard – it had cut him too, two long wound parallel to each other engraved in his palm – Fee turned to look at his friend and father, eyes wide and filled with tears.

"Maestro…" he said, but his words trailed off. The cold-blooded murderer he'd been was nowhere to be seen. Yet another marvellous transformation Cirocco had borne witness to.

Leonardo went over to him and clutched his hands. He saw the blood, and his face became concerned, then resolute.

"I've a carriage waiting outside," he told him; "Go and gather whatever essentials you have. You too, Signor Acqua."

Cirocco looked up. He saw in those deep blue eyes something he had lacked throughout life. Leonardo was, in a matter of seconds, a father figure. In his arms there was Fiorentino, a man he'd thought there was no one stronger, trembling and half-retching as he eyes continually glanced at the bodies around him.

"Let me gather Ada—Fee's things." He offered, hurrying up the stairs; "What do you want me to take, Fee?"

There was no answer from the man. He was glad only for the support his father provided, his face buried deep within Leonardo's shoulder pad.

"Get him a few mementos from the people of the town," the artist called up the stairs; "and for Christo sake, hurry! I don't know how much time we have to leave."

In truth, they had a long while. Cesare wanted not to be involved directly with the capture of Fiorentino; it had so happened that he chanced across the man's name, in a confession from a woman who had come to the church to atone for her sins. She mentioned an illegitimate son; a boy who - by the hand of famed artist Leonardo da Vinci, a man Cesare had heard of and admired, and equally so his son, someone mentioned to possess angel-like temperament and be born with a mind of pure beauty – had the blood of an Auditore in him, and so no doubt made him a hated enemy.

Fiorentino's death would be to him a victory of the great Templar Order. Had he anticipated the training he'd received, Cesare may have deigned to send a handful more men; perhaps a cannon or two.

As the trio escaped over the border, armed with few essentials, for Cirocco owned little aside from his mother's jewellery, tucked away in his hands, many things went through Fee's mind. How he'd promised the children he would read to them the next morning. How he'd said to the frail old man that he would feed his cattle and visit his daughter. How he'd sworn to Lorenzo that he would set about fixing the town's clock, if so he was able.

His entire life gone, in a matter of moments. One second he was asleep, and the next he was crossing through the mountains he remembered as a child, themselves growing large out of tiny, barren fields, not yet ready for plantations. Beside him sat a friend so stiff he thought he might be dead, told otherwise by intermittent sobs. On his other side was his father, who put a gentle hand on his shoulder in comfort.

_Merda, _he thought: _And again to a life of murderous men._


	7. Lost Hearts To Know Again

Dawn washed over them like a shower of cold rain. The road became visible to them, if only what lay in front, for behind there still clung the dark shadows of night and unsaid farewells, and neither man, Fee or Cirocco, wished to turn and think what could have been.

Leonardo left them to their thoughts. It was enough for him that his son was returned. Had there been something he could have said, some way he could have preserved Fee's life and whatever he had built for himself, he would have done so in an instant. Returning to Monteriggioni was to Fee an imprisonment, a return to a life not of his own volition, and to bring Cirocco into that must have weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Few people passed them. Fewer still smiled as they went. There were families, singletons, farmers, merchants, artists, courtesans; a whole host of people with indiscriminate features, and so easily were they forgotten that Cirocco wondered why he paid them any attention. It was all he could do not to burst into tears. He was of a sensitive nature – that his home had been taken from him, and so too the graves of his loved ones, seemed the greatest crime of all, apparently perpetrated by a man much godlier than he.

In his hands he held his mother's jewellery box, his only memento of her. There were portraits, but they had been abandoned. What little he owned of his siblings remained in his mind, for memories were most precious and delicate, and faded slowly as he grew older.

Fiorentino sat beside him. He could not bring himself to hate the man, and yet he found himself seething resentment. His belief in Fee's goodliness had led him to offer a place in his home, where he had his nephews stay – children that had escaped with one of his sisters, only for her to die later with a bout of tuberculosis – and lent to his ears secrets he hadn't told any other person, living or dead. To realise that he had been lied to was like a stab in the gut.

"How is Angelo?" Fiorentino finally asked, for the silence was maddening; "Has he grown?"

Leonardo frowned, as though he felt his news would sadden him; "The boy's a prodigy of the Creed. He learns with the skill of his father, and mourns him still."

"Claudia's husband died?"

"A year ago. Affari Terribile. He was riding through the valleys and was struck by an arrow. If we knew who the archer was, no doubt Mario would have called war on his homeland."

Fee's eyes softened considerably; "Was it a quick death?"

"No," his father admitted; "The man was as stubborn as a mule. He wouldn't accept that his time had come, and by fighting, instead all he did was prolong his suffering. Angelo was inconsolable for weeks. He said first he lost a cousin, and then he lost a father."

The man looked down. He was ashamed for what he had done to Angelo, the act of cowardice that was fleeing, but he thought by teaching less advantaged children he could atone for the sin. Had he ruminated on it more, perhaps he would have known that there was no atonement for his crimes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered; "Angelo was far too young to be abandoned. I handled him unfairly, and I wish only that he forgives me for it."

"Venire, it's not your fault," Leonardo patted his shoulder, still with one hand on the long, black reins, itself winding up to the brown steeds and their attachments; "Anyone in your situation would do the same."

Cirocco glanced over. More of Fiorentino's unknown life, he supposed. Noblemen were such mysteries, but it seemed the Auditore line had long been afflicted with bad luck, and they were well acquainted with tragedy.

Fee saw the glance, and elaborated; "My cousin, you see. Claudia Auditore is my aunt."

"And who, then, is your father?" he asked; "Not Maestro – I mean no disrespect."

"A dead man."

The way he said it struck no fear in Cirocco, so he prompted for more.

"Do you know a Federico Auditore?"

"I heard tales of him. Apparently hung beside his father and younger brother. Ezio went on to become a criminal, or so I'm told. This all happened before we were born, no?"

"Only a few days before I was, if I calculate it properly," Fiorentino nodded at him; "Federico era mio padre."

There was a moment's pause. Cirocco apologised, suddenly sheepish, as though Fee felt some connection to the man he'd never once known.

"There's no need to be sorry. I never knew him. If I did, perhaps then I would feel more pain at his death," he sighed; "That makes me a bad enough man."

"Your mother?"

"A lover. She lives, and I've no doubt I have brothers and sisters I know nothing about. That I'm a bastardo must mean they want nothing to do with me, should they know I exist."

Leonardo reached out to brush his arm. The artist had grown a thicker beard, Fee noticed, and crows' feet appeared where once there was smooth skin, the faintest of wrinkles running down his cheeks, visible only to one with sharp enough eyes.

"Not a bastard, my son. You're a disguised miracle. My gift, remember?"

"Gift?" Cirocco asked. It spurred on a detailed explanation of Fiorentino's appearance, and by the end of it Leonardo was smiling, as though the memory brought him joy.

"He was never a fussy baby. I've heard some children are terrors. Fiorentino only cried if he was hungry or needed changing."

"Strange, I've never heard you say you were hungry," the man mentioned to Fee. It earned him a glance in the other direction, and his interest was piqued to the point of intense focus.

"I outgrew it," he replied; "Circumstance made it a weakness, and weakness is frowned upon for an Auditore man. Few of them know I consider myself a da Vinci."

The silence that followed was of a more relaxed state. In it, three other carriages passed, yet none smiled. The day grew brighter still as their wagon trundled along, the horses whinnying every few minutes, with the sounds of far-off bird song their only melody.

"I feel I owe you a lot of explanations," Fiorentino said to Cirocco when around an hour had passed.

"Che si fa."

"Shall we start small?" he suggested, proffering his hand; "My name is Fiorentino da Vinci, son of Leonardo da Vinci, bastard of Federico Auditore. My main loves are literature, art, and fine wine."

Cirocco laughed and shook his hand; "Cirocco Acqua. I'm a lover of great architecture, and greater musical instruments."

"It's good to meet you, Signor Acqua," Fee's smile was soft, but there was a sadness to it, something apparent and yet not so tangible that Cirocco could place it; "Welcome to my Creed, Cirocco."


	8. Happiest Reunion

As in the distance there grew the Monteriggioni bastions, so too did Fee's heart sink.

Unuttered protests lingered on his lips, words left unsaid as the cart moved closer. The fearful gaze of a boy returned to his eyes, but none were looking to see it, and he found himself wondering if Fate watched over him, pushing him on despite his revulsion. Blood and gore were his brushes; his words were cries of battle in a dozen different voices, but his own, weak and bitter, could do no more than weep, praying that one day he too would meet his end on a battlefield and be freed from his mortal Hell.

Cirocco was amazed by the fortresses. That a small town would have such grand defences came as a pleasant surprise. After so long spent tending fields in Romagna, where 'defence' was a myth and 'crime' a certainty, he was glad to see that he might find form of protection there, even if he went to the life of a common beggar.

"This is where you lived?!" he asked, more amazed at his leaving than he was his nobility; "This? I heard about the walls, but I never…"

"I lived here for two years when I was a boy, and a few days before I was pressed to move on," came Fee's reply; "The walls are constantly being renovated. They were much less…outstanding, before."

It was true; the battlements had become stronger, with fresh coats of paint so as to appease the eye, and a few guards were stationed above with what seemed to be happy faces. Confident in their safety, perhaps. No man knew when death would be upon them, but such was their trust in Mario's leadership, in Ezio's gold, they knew it would not be soon.

Inside, he was amazed to see people still recognised him. A few cheered when they saw him past – gaggles of children, he realised, stared up at him in awe while their mothers whispered things in their ears, themselves with grins on their faces and hands on their hearts. His sheepish smile returned. The familiar blush of being in the spotlight appeared on his face. For a moment he wished he were still a boy; then, he would have reason to press up against his father, other than being shy in the light of many eyes.

"It will be alright, mio garzone," Leonardo promised him; "They are pleased to see you. Many thought you to be dead."

"Isn't that a better option?" he replied, though his words were purely speculative, not meant to spark debate; "Had I been dead, there would be one less murderer on the streets, one less dagger under one less cloak, and one less child, lost in his way."

The artist patted his hand; "I still see no murderer when I look at you, Fee."

To his surprise, the Villa still stood, clean and without so much as a scratch on its windows, a chip in its stone. There were a few servants milling about outside, but when they caught sight of him they hurried within, and he feared that there was retribution in store for his return; perhaps a long-coming battle with Mario, which he would surely lose.

He needn't have worried.

The maids had gone inside not to warn their masters of his return, but to rejoice in it. As Fiorentino clambered from the cart, helping Cirocco with a firm hand and firmer nod, he first heard the shrill shriek of joy that came from his aunt – then, felt her catapulting into him.

"Fee! Fee, Fee, Fee!" she cried, his name like a holy mantra on her lips; "How good to have you home! How good to see you alive! We feared the worst, when you didn't write to us again."

With some difficulty he manoeuvred himself around to hug her back. She was older, he realised, with few wrinkles scoring down her face, and she seemed plumper once more. There was another baby in the Villa, he wagered. Such happy news was made terrible in the light of her loss, what with her husband buried and her son in mourning.

"Ciao, Zia," he said; "It's wonderful to see you again. Have you been well?"

There was a dullness in her eyes, but whether or not he knew she refrained from her bad news; "Very. I've a daughter now – Eliza. She's only a few months old. You'll meet her soon, if not today."

_A few months?_ He thought as he feigned a smile: _Claudia must have not known she was pregnant when her husband died. Early stages. Il mio dio; how awful for her._

There were kisses placed on his face, the soft, butterfly kisses that could only come from an aunt. She drawled that he looked more like Federico with each passing day. To avoid the awkward topic, he instead changed it to that of Cirocco, introducing his friend to Claudia as 'the one who gave me shelter, when I had none.' That he had helped an Auditore in his time of need made him a firm friend, and Cirocco too was given a vice-like hug.

"Leonardo," she greeted him with a kiss to his cheek, and he returned it in kind; "Thank you for finding him. I admit, I thought you were on a fool's errand when you left."

"I had no doubt when I heard that man. I knew Fee had to be there, or else, he was not on this Earth." He flashed them all a warm smile; "This is wonderful. My son is home, and he brings a friend. Salaì will be so happy to hear you've returned."

Fiorentino nodded. The mention of Gian piqued his interests somewhat. He would see whether or not his lessons of modest belongings had stuck with the boy.

Their quiet reunion was interrupted by a cough by the door. The quartet turned, only to be confronted with Mario's eyes, the uninjured brown and sightless white, which seemed to fixate solely on Fee. The man shuffled his feet, but held firm. He had learnt long ago that weakness in front of his great-uncle was the wrong thing to show.

Mario walked forward. Each step was heavy, slow. Fee stood his ground, neither intimidated nor fearful of the man, but there was a slight tremble in anticipation of his reprimanding, shown in the quivering of his bottom lip.

He put his hands on his shoulders. His eyes stared into his great-nephew's, like a predator would a prey in the final moments of its life. Then, he pulled him into a tight, almost crushing hug.

"Bentornato a casa, il mio garzone." He said; "Come – let's get you all something to eat."

But there was a tacit understanding between them, something they were bound to in blood. Fee's return meant that he would face punishment. It was their Way. It was their Duty.

It was their Creed.


	9. Submission

"What's your name?"

_Fiorentino da Vinci._

"What is your name?!"

_Fiorentino da Vinci!_

"What is your name?!"

"Fiorentino Auditore!"

The confession, true or not, gave Mario what he wanted. As he dropped the cane he clutched in his hand, the great assassin moved to stand in front of the Codex wall, whereon slowly they were discovering the secrets Altair had left behind; their famed and noble leader from centuries before.

Fee fell backwards onto the desk. His blood was sticky, flowing from a cut above his eye that, lower down, could have matched him to Mario. He caught glimpses of a study he had seen so many times; the desk of polished mahogany, made white with documents, war plans and the like; the bookcases stuffed with guides, but all of them on strategy, or repetitive tales of a good man gone to war; the archways that led out to courtyards, themselves dark, walled, and protected by several guards; and the font of water that sat in front of the Codex Wall, which seemed to have been converted into a stand, perhaps for the weapon that all fools were falling over themselves for.

"Yes!" Mario said, catching Fee's somewhat blurred attention; "You are Fiorentino Auditore, of the Auditore heritage! And what is our heritage, garzone?!"

_Blood and death and underworld wars. _"Our heritage is of respectable men. Not cowards or deserters."

"What is your crime against us, Fiorentino?"

That he was forced to speak with a mouthful of blood choked his answer. The pause displeased Mario, for he stamped his foot and repeated the question, never once turning to see if he was coherent.

"I abandoned the Creed, and endangered you all," he said. It came out at length, laboured by his shortness of breath, but it was enough to sate his great-uncle.

Mario turned. His sightless eye roamed nowhere, but the uninjured brown fell on him and almost seared his skin. Fee saw on the ground beside him the cane, splintered at one end while the other was sleek black wood, and it took no genius to figure out which end he was beaten with.

"I didn't want to do this to you, my boy," the warrior said. He took steps towards him, but Fee seemed to almost flinch away. The man, now with bloody features, instead stormed to the archway that led out into the night, where he paused for whatever was next said.

Mario sighed; "You have to understand the position we're in! Your disappearance was at a bad time – Ezio has been trying to secure the Apple ever since!"

"And so to punish an ally for their transgressions, you beat them?" he barked back, turning to face his kin; "Until they're sore and bleeding? Until they cry out confessions under pain of death? Is this the family I share my blood with, or is it by some cruel twist of Fate that my mother's lies led me here?"

The warrior's face blanched. The candlelight's soft orange hue crept over the room, giving some visibility where there would be none, but still most of the room was dense shadows and contorted shapes, great, hulking furniture made mere outlines.

"Your insolence will not be tolerated, Fee!" he shouted.

"Had I any evidence to suggest otherwise?!" was the man's response, his fingers to his face. The pain was nothing compared to what he had suffered; given the chance, he would gladly take it over losing Isabella, or saying farewell to Benvolio, but the principle stood nonetheless. Leonardo had never raised a hand in anger towards him. Very few times had he raised his voice. That the artist's blood was not his own almost made angry tears flood down Fiorentino's face.

"You will understand something, boy!" the warrior went towards him again, finger pointed; "Noi siamo uomini leali! The Templars know nothing of loyalty. We stood in the middle of what could tilt the war in our favour, and just when we thought our troubles were at their end, you decide to flee from us!"

There was no argument to be made, so Fee was silent. His eyes grew hard as he stared at his great-uncle, but Mario could deny there was no loss of humanity in them.

"Your grandfather, father and uncle died for this cause. Many more died before them. I will not stand here and let you dishonour them all by denying what lies in your blood!"

"And my nature means nothing, does it?" he replied.

"That it does not! My brother's nature was that of a pencil-pusher, and yet the war found him and his children! Had those Templars known you existed - sweet, innocent baby Fee - no doubt they would have caved your head in."

Again, there was silence. What little moonlight there was flooded the back of Fiorentino's head, illuminating it until his black hair was shining.

Mario's face was close to his own, so he could smell his breath, hear his ragged puffs induced by rage; "You are not a baby anymore, Fee. Essere un uomo. Machiavelli comes to inspect our coffers; I intend for you to apologise to him for your offense against the Creed."

Fiorentino was a good soldier, and so he agreed. His obedience had cost him a great deal throughout life. Had he not such a bendable will, at least to his loved ones, he'd no doubt he would have gone on to his literary dreams and left the 'war' behind him.

The warrior moved back to his study, where he leaned against his desk as though in pain. Fee wanted to make sure he was alright, but no words came out of his mouth. He would not become subject to another beating; he had no reason to, no person to stand up for, and no cause to deem it necessary.

"I want us to be warriors together, il mio garzone." He admitted; "But I'm growing old. I'm not immortal and I must go to our Lord someday. So if my beatings seem harsh, and my punishments out of place, remember this; you may be old and strong enough to defend yourself, but what of Angelo? Eliza?"

He paused. As he watched his great-uncle gather himself, a thought ran through his mind: _All is lost when good men go to war._


	10. Assigned

That his first assignment was to be completed with Ezio gave Fee little comfort.

His uncle was ecstatic to see him again. He withstood the hugs, the jubilations and the tears, which made him feel worse for his escape. The assassin's emotions were so seldom seen that he was almost unnerved to remember they existed, and so he just smiled and nodded, agreeing to whatever was asked of him, no matter how strenuous or bloodthirsty.

"My boy," Ezio kissed his cheeks over and over, as though in his time away he had reverted back to infancy; "My boy, my boy, my boy! My little nipote! How wonderful it is to have you by my side."

Fee smiled, his cheeks ablaze with shyness as around them, the maids had come to see the spectacle. They hung about the banisters like curious squirrels in a marble tree, and he did his best not to look up at them, afraid that doing so would alert them to his blush.

"It's been a long time," he agreed; "How are you, uncle? Does the war favour us?"

"I wish I had better news for you. We lost the Apple to Savonarola. He uses it to control the Florentine people; our people, Fee."

The elder man's face grew weary. It was then that Fee noticed the wrinkles that appeared ever so faintly under his eyes; tenacious things, he realised, that plagued every adult he had known in childhood, transforming them from ebullient role models to austere, tired relics.

"Is there no way to stop him?" he asked, striking a pose that conveyed urgency; "We cannot in good conscience leave those people to suffer at the hands of the corrupt. What must we do to free them?"

"What are we assassins best known for, Fee?" Ezio replied. It made him fall silent. He had hoped there was another way, even when he knew the likelihood of murder, and to hear himself be proven wrong dashed what little spirits he'd preserved.

"When do you plan to kill him?"

"I must leave him for the time being. There are much more important things that require my attention."

"Leave those poor people to suffer under his reign?" Fee asked; "Were it still your homeland, would you fight for its freedom?"

"This isn't about freedom, Fee. If we think, no man is free. Even you and I are products of our environment."

Again, the man was silent. He allowed for his uncle to put a hand around his shoulder, steadying him against the non-existent wind, and listened out of respect when he spoke.

"We must look to the immediate problems, mio garzone. The Borgia are a bigger threat to us right now. I promise you, nothing will stop me from freeing our people, but you must give me time to do so."

There was nothing for it – Fiorentino had to agree. He wore a face that was displeased and held an anxious pose, but such was his acceptance of his Fate that he thought not to argue with it, or that of the people it left behind. Florence would be freed, was all he knew. Perhaps not in the coming months, but soon enough.

"Fee?"

He turned towards the voice. From the front office appeared Gian, his eyes soft and light, as if two years hadn't passed by and it was mere days since they had seen each other. The boy's readiness to adapt to a situation somewhat unnerved him; and he had been trained in the subject.

"What is it?"

"Cirocco and Maestro want to see you and Ezio upstairs. They wanted to see you about half an hour ago, but I was distracted."

Fee gave him an exasperated groan, but did not reprimand him. God knows he had done it enough in his short time back. He felt that each time he did it, Gian's behaviour worsened, as if he craved the attention disobedience brought more than the satisfaction of duty. He had determined to rebuke him only for the extravagant clothes he still bought, wherever he bought them from.

Upstairs, both men were discussing trivial things. When the assassins entered, Fee noticed first his portrait on the wall; the one painted when he was three years old and still had his innocence about him. His eyes held nothing but kindness and honesty. The haunted look was absent, as was evident now in the way he gazed woefully at a fireplace in the dead of night, or how he roamed the halls as if without purpose. His smile was genuine, not the strained, forced thing he wore when speaking to his great-uncle, or reading of tactics with which to apply to his training.

"What is it, Maestro?" he asked his father, who looked up with a wide smile; "Did you need something?" he noticed too that Cirocco seemed to be learning the arts, since it was plain he would be spending a lengthy stay at Villa Auditore. Romagna was no longer the safe haven they had come to love. Cesare Borgia either knew he had an enemy, or Fee had made more than he thought.

"Fee!" Leonardo said, drawing the boy from his thoughts; "And look – you have Ezio, too! Good!"

The men exchanged hugs. Such a long time had passed since they had seen each other, and still it felt like just yesterday the two were young, their legs more able and their muscles stronger.

"Why do I feel as though I'm not going to like what you ask next?" The elder assassin asked, but he did so with mirth.

"Stand there. In the light."

Both men were manoeuvred until they were in place. The light washed over them as though it were a golden shroud, like that of angels and heralds, of divines both old and new. Their hair, both dark, was highlighted so that even the thickest parts seemed glowing, and together they were a pair of spirits that had escaped Heaven, brought down to Earth to do things no righteous creature should have to do.

"What are you up to?" Ezio asked with a raised eyebrow. He saw that Leonardo leaned over to his easel, which he christened with a new parchment to begin work on.

"Stare fermi," he chastised playfully; "I need to capture you as you are. Cirocco, take note!"

The man gazed at Fiorentino with a small smile. He returned it with his own. Though he had been under Leonardo's eyes many times, he still felt the weight of them with all the intensity he gave to his art, and so humbled was he to be a subject he was struck quiet.

"I will, Maestro."

"Good. Now, Fee; smile. This is to commemorate your return home."

"We must be off at dawn's light," Ezio said to him, however gently; "It's best to do this sooner rather than later. Yes?"

And because he had no choice – because Fate was cruel and Judgement harsh – Fiorentino nodded.


	11. To Sweet Venice

It was on a starless night, with no moon for guidance and no lanterns for comfort, that Fee and Ezio went skulking through the streets of Venice.

Their breaths came out in white smoke, like a dragon's. Their eyes were precise and keen, as though in darkness they could see more than man ever did in light, and together they were the prowling panthers of distant lands; corrupt men's executioners, and the people's scorn.

They reached a house by the canals long before dawn. Inside, they chanced upon five sleeping children, and Fee made silent refusal to harm them. They were in handcrafted beds, each with their own room, though as their ages progressed – two, five, seven, nine, ten – more and more began to decorate the walls, such as letters from beloved ones and art from famous painters, and their beds were better filled for their height.

It was not in Ezio's mind to kill these children; carefully, the pair shut their doors so as to block out what little noise there would be, continuing on to one door at the end of a long hallway which they assumed was the master bedroom.

As they opened the door, they found within a bed larger still, complete with silk jade sheets and two bedside tables, and nestled amongst the dozens of pillows, a mother and father. The woman had edged away from her husband sometime before they arrived. The man, who they had come to eliminate, turned his back on her, so the air felt cold even to Fiorentino, who wore those heavy robes he had come to associate with death and the thick, weighty boots that made it so hard to be silent.

Cirocco came across his journal late at night. He hadn't meant to open it, but so curious was he of Fee's dark past and eager to hone his new reading skills, made stronger for Leonardo's guidance, temptation won.

With almost trembling hands, he opened it to a random page, and found there curly black words that spoke of anguish.

_Dannazione tutto, must it always be I who carries this torch? My dreams lay dead in the dust, and with them lay my enemies, none of which are men I know. Does a name dictate who you are? Do noblemen and their women change opinions if they are in hiding, under false titles?_

Fee moved towards the woman. Best to dispatch her first, should she wake and notice what they were doing. It was not so much that he feared exposure, but rather that he feared her husband's reaction should he wake. Such noise would bring the children to investigate. Their little eyes would see but two cloaked figures in the densest shadows of their parent's room, and they would walk away from that night less innocent than they had entered it.

_I feel nothing. Numbness has taken what little passion I had. It spreads itself across my body, and makes me weaker for it. I've no doubt that my melancholy is irreversible. Should I ever escape, I fear it will be as a boy most perturbed._

_Fiorentino da Vinci – 11._

Cirocco sucked in a breath. So young, and yet so cynical. So hurt by people that should have cared for him. He was almost scared to continue on, but that he did, and as he turned each page he came to realise Fee blamed none of his family members; to him, he was entirely to blame.

_Blood runs black through my veins-_

_Make it so I die and disintegrate, for I have sinned-_

_No god exists; I wither for my misdeeds-_

_There is bitter emptiness in dead men's hearts, and so I join them in their agony, he who made it so-_

It went on in much the same fashion. Cirocco's eyes were strained and his heart hurt when he finally put it down. He had never imagined mild-mannered Fiorentino, first known as Adalfieri, to have such a deep despair; he didn't look as though he were capable of it.

"His mouth!" Ezio instructed; "Cover his mouth, nipote!"

Fee did as he was told. When his hand clapped over the man's mouth, two terrified eyes sprung open, and like that the pieces fell into place for their victim. His arms thrashed, but whatever sound he uttered was muffled.

"Tranquillo, l'uomo!" he hissed; "It will be over soon."

But it was a lie. Ezio tortured him for what seemed like hours. Pieces were cut off: skin left hanging like that of a pig's in a butcher's shop. Fiorentino stood there and tried not to wretch, tried not to think of the world beyond this horror and the life he had led – simple farming was a damn sight better than this, no matter how low paying. This was volunteer work made compulsory for a name.

Cirocco went wandering. He ventured further than he had in days; out into the streets, where he lingered at the gates that led to the wide, beautiful landscape. He saw the moon above and thought of Fiorentino. The man he had known seemed far off from the man he had come to understand.

Each star seemed to him a distant land. When Fee had left that morning, under the arm of his uncle, there was a certain melancholy about him. Had Cirocco the power, he would fly to those stars and end up in Venice, perhaps just to see what macabre job was so important it had to be done, and by so gentle a man.

Fiorentino trembled to the point of quaking when they left the house. He had tried so hard to clean up, but Ezio had forbid it. If he hadn't notice the twinkle in his uncle's eye, the glimmer of sadness that never quite reached his voice nor his actions, he would have yelled at him, or at least reacted in disgust to the warm hand put upon his shoulder.

"Let's go, nipote," he muttered; "We've done our work here."

If there was a moon in the sky that he could see, perhaps Fee would have found a little comfort. But there was none, and so he obeyed.


	12. The Threat from Rome

Darkness came in the form of Borgia.

Fiorentino had harboured a dislike for religion since he was a young boy. That his father had the good sense to save him from a church-run orphanage was something he could never thank enough. Each time he saw the Pope's flags flying, or heard a prayer that sounded similar to the Lord's, there came over him a strong urge to vomit, as though in his place as a bastardo he was also an atheistic minion.

It was when he tended to some flowers outside of the gates that he saw the carriages, throwing up dust on the horizon. The hills seemed alive with them for a moment. Rising from where he was hunched, over a bed that had been trampled, he saw the sun that burned so brightly outline a dozen different horses, all of them with flanks of heaving ebony or rain-soaked cloud, and adorned with the various attachments that made them capable of hauling carts. The dust that rose from their thundering hooves was enough to almost blot out the sky.

When he saw the Pope's flag, he was quick to cry out a warning to the waiting guards.

Weapons were drawn. A bell was sounded somewhere within that warned of coming trouble. Fiorentino hurried to a vantage point, his hands quick to pull himself up to the top of one of the towers, where he stood in quiet defiance of the Catholic Church. He sinned, perhaps. God would not forgive him his misdeeds, if so He existed, but he would rather burn in Hell than allow a pious man to shame his family.

The carts took a while to reach them, and when they did all bows were aimed at whoever stepped out. As it happened, there was no Pope inside. Instead, a man with a black goatee emerged, blinking blue eyes like chips of ice, and his head a mane of dark hair. It was Cesare Borgia; the man who claimed to love God, but did so much to go against His word.

When he saw the weapons trained on him, he laughed.

"Is this how you treat a Cardinal?" he asked; "Is this how you welcome Cesare Borgia to your home?"

"A Cardinal doesn't wear the clothes of the Captain General," was Fee's reply; "You come here as a man bearing war."

Below him, Mario and Claudia had hurried to the gates, which were closed. The iron was enough to separate them from Cesare's entourage. The guards that stood behind the Cardinal seemed unsure of themselves under the weight of many archers, but such was their loyalty that they stood firm. Beside the pair Leonardo was quick to scan for any face that showed weakness, but aside from the uncertainty, there was none.

"Basta con questa," Cesare yawned, his mouth like that of a gaping cave which threatened to swallow the town whole; "You are a wanted man, Fiorentino da Vinci. Wanted for the murder of diplomats far and wide. You and your crimes must be brought to justice."

The words sent shivers down his spine; "Then do so. But I won't allow you to scare these people with your men. If you take me, you take only me."

The defiance was not what Cesare expected. His face darkened somewhat, and with it seemed to go the light, for the sun was covered by a passing cloud in that exact moment.

Bows held fast. Archers were careful not to attack, even though their fingers itched for it. Leonardo wanted to cry out in protest but found himself silent, for if he made a sudden noise in this intense faceoff, he feared that he would spark a battle.

"You would do well not to defy me, Fiorentino. I'm not the man to cross."

"Does piety do nothing for patience?" he countered; "I could ask for forgiveness for the rest of my life, and no man would see fit to do it."

Cesare moved forward with eyes narrowed; "I will not be denied by a murderer!"

"Then look to your flock and see who's without sin!"

Fee had longed realised the hypocrisy of Man. It stood to him embodied in Cesare. The man called himself a Cardinal, but wore Captain General clothes. He had liaisons with women both professional and not – the fact was not unknown to people, just disregard for most. If it were so that he fell out of favour with his father, the grand Pope, with whom he bared many resemblances towards (the sadistic personality of a self-serving sociopath, for one) his thin veil would fall with it, and Fee could only imagine what horrible rumours would surface.

Fiorentino pointed back to the horizon; "I don't want to see you dead, Borgia. You have at least three dozen arrows pointed at you, and God won't help you to avoid them all. Unless you want to meet Him sooner than planned, I suggest you go."

"Fee!" Mario called out, his voice still strong despite his age; "Don't let the enemy leave!"

"If we kill him now there will be retribution," Leonardo hushed the man. Mario was a good sort, but his mind in his old age was more bent to war than it was to peace, and he feared until he accepted his mortality it would continue to do so. "Let Fiorentino handle this. My boy knows well."

Fee stood taller, if only to give himself more confidence; "Vattene, Borgia. Leave these people to their lives."

Such anger burned in Cesare's eyes that it almost seared a hole in the man's head. Still, Fee did not back down. His death would be met in a nobler way; justice would be served for the many who watched him, not for these Monteriggioni natives who still saw him a hero, fooled themselves that he wasn't the villain of the piece.

"I will see you dead, boy!" the Cardinal shouted. Cirocco, who had kept to the side-lines out of fear of intruding, allowed himself to slide beside Leonardo and listen, eyes narrowed at the strange man who spoke with the Roman accent; an accent attributed to that of the Rome dialect of Italian. "I will have your head on a spike and paraded through the streets! Everyone will know your name! Everyone will know the artisan's rogue son!"

Fiorentino sucked in a breath; "So be it."

Leonardo, for one, knew it was a bluff. To reveal that Fiorentino, a boy renowned for his calm, was truly a murderer, would sway the public into believing that Cesare was mad, and could perhaps make his respect dwindle.

"Andiamo, uomini!" the Cardinal called to the guards surrounding him; "Let's go. We've more important things to be doing than speaking to a coward."

As he clambered into his cart, Cesare turned and yelled at them; "I will find your weakness, killer! I'll scour the city until I do! Mark my words; none of you are safe!"

But though his threats fell on deaf ears below him, Fiorentino inhaled deeply, for he could think about only two people; his beautiful Isabella, and the son he wished he had never let go.


	13. Of Distant Lands

"Mi dispiace, I'm not quite sure I follow. Why are you packing?"

Fiorentino placed a few clothes into a satchel, itself new and hand-made, having been a gift from the town's widows. In the doorframe that led to his room lingered Cirocco, who watched him with a gaze that verged on suspicion.

As the man walked to and from his large double bed, he explained; "You and I are going to Rome to see someone – a woman I knew in my boyhood."

"And why is that?"

"She might be in danger." he replied, crossing his room again to pack more away, this time to the tune of books and quills, and an assortment of lead rods for silver-point drawings. He had never been the sort to draw, but such was his father's influence on him that in returning, he had an urge to take it up again.

Cirocco looked at him as though he were asking for the world, arms crossed over his chest and legs apart, his posture rather like a spouse when told something displeasing; "Why do you need me, of all people? Why not Maestro or Salaì?"

Fiorentino looked up. His eyes revealed little emotion, but when looking in them Cirocco was always reminded of a quiet scholar, or a kind man that worked in charity. Behind him, there was an intense sunlight that washed in through the window, giving to the room and the back of his head a golden, heavenly glow. If he were an artist, as so he hoped to be in Leonardo's tutelage, Cirocco imagined he would have urged the man to stay still so that he might capture the beauty of the moment on canvas.

"I ask a lot from you, my friend," Fee said, which pulled the man back to the scene, not the tableau he had been admiring; "and I have no right to ask for more. But, with Father busy and Salaì being his volatile self, I can think of no one I'd rather have on this trip than you. I understand if you refuse, but…well, you're one of my closest friends, Cirocco."

Fiorentino had moved to sit on his bed, and at the end of his speech, he gave the smile that his counterpart knew well. It was the smile that could make him agree to murder, should that be his desire.

"Fine," he gave a theatrical sigh, his arms falling to his sides; "I'll come with you."

Fee stood with a gleeful face. He looked rather like a child that had been given an unexpected gift. As he hurried over to collect more things, he professed unending gratitude, and promised to Cirocco that his sacrifice would not go unrewarded.

"Ask me anything, and you'll know it." He said after a while. The offer stuck, and Cirocco redeemed it immediately.

"Who is this woman?" the colour paled from Fee's face, but his friend went on; "Why is it so important that we go to her now, and why is she in such imminent danger?"

He fancied he saw a change in Fee. Instantly, he went from gleeful to melancholy. There was an undeniable sadness in his walk as he went to the bed, where he sat down as though heavy.

When he spoke, it was at length, and his question had Cirocco think that he might avoid giving an answer; "Do you remember at the cottage, what you said?"

"I said a lot of things at the cottage. Be specific?"

He laughed, a soft thing that didn't go far; "Prima dell'attacco. You asked if I had a son."

"It was a joke, Fee. I was annoyed. You had just told me you weren't the man I thought you were, after all."

He nodded. There was no anger in his eyes, and Cirocco saw in them instead forgiveness, as if he knew that there was nothing to words thrown in the midst of an argument. He was wise beyond his years.

_Murdering against your will would age you, I suppose._

"But, you were right." There was a silence. "I do have a son. A beautiful little boy I haven't seen in three years."

And so, Fiorentino told him a story of reckless love and bad decisions, and a situation that proved unworkable. He told Cirocco of the nights he spent awake, barely crying, for he had no more tears to give, and the mornings he spent with nothing but a heavy emptiness in the pit of his stomach, the depths of his heart. Somewhere in his storytelling, Fee moved and his friend sat beside him, turned so they were facing one another, and the sky outside became overcast, until even the sun seemed to have no sway and the rooms were made dark.

"So, you see," he finished his tale some time later, a single tear glimmering in the corner of his eye, "I have to go to her. I have to be sure she's alright, even if it means unearthing all those dark secrets. If I sat back and something…something happened to Benvolio…"

Before he could even contemplate it, Cirocco took Fee's face in his hands. He spoke with the tenderness of a mother soothing her child. If anyone had walked in, perhaps they would have felt more unease in their position.

"We will go to them, and you'll see that they're alright," he said; "Borgia hanno i loro limiti. Perhaps they have an audience with God, but He doesn't seem to tell them much in the way of information."

Fiorentino huffed out a laugh as his face was released; "It seems not. It still baffles me that Cesare found out who I was. Even when I was a boy, no one ever knew my name. I was a true faceless assassin. It was…perhaps if I had enjoyed the trade more, I could call it an art."

"Isn't there an art in war?" Cirocco asked.

"That's what the great poets will to tell you. The truth is, blood looks glorious on a canvas."


	14. Sloping Allies

The cart ride was quiet for a long time. Above the mountains there was but an expanse of clouded sky, charcoal black like the insides of a burning fire, and around them there was nothing but a twittering of nature, life surviving where there were no trees, bushes, nor easy access to food.

Fiorentino thought deeply of his son as they went. Beside him, Cirocco made no noise. Too preoccupied by the plainness of the mountainsides, perhaps. He had been told by many children of Romagna that the mountains to them represented silent guardians, where if there was an attack they could hide, and as well would reveal any assailants that dare use them as a means of ambush. To see that their embodiments of protection were no more than bare rock must have been difficult to face, even for a grown man.

Benvolio would have turned three some months before. Fee had some wild fancy that he was a reader, but at his age he would be hard-pressed to even speak properly. His son was like him in circumstance, living as a bastardo despite being disguised as Cristiano's boy, so why not in nature, too? In interests and desires? That he'd been saved from his destiny was of the greatest comfort to Fee, but that didn't stop him wishing that Benvolio and Isabella could have stayed.

"It's strange," Cirocco interrupted his thoughts; "I always loved these mountains as a boy."

"They are beautiful." Fiorentino replied.

"No they're not. They're bare. Rock the occasional moss. Later, soil. Why did I love them so much?"

There was a retrospective tone in Cirocco's voice, but Fee heard an undercurrent of sad amusement, as though he were closing the lid on a box that kept his inner child. He could imagine it well – a small, thinner boy, pale in colour, looking up with wide eyes as a darkness washed over his home, and he was left without even the smallest ray of sunshine.

He reached over and put his hand on his friend's shoulder; "They are beautiful. Life still thrives, even if we can't see it. Listen. Riesci a sentirlo?"

"I can hear a lot of insects, Fee. Nothing spectacular."

"But it's the beauty of life, no? That even in such inhospitable places, something can still live?" he gave a strong smile; "It's what keeps me going when I feel at my worst. No matter what happens, things will live. People will survive. My only hope is they learn to get along with one another."

The cart continued on.

They chose not to return to Romagna, and instead took a route that was longer. It would mean they were travelling for three days, and one of those would be spent trying to traverse the mountains. They would meet little resistance, except perhaps a party of thieves. Raiders, as Fee liked to call them, secreted themselves away in certain areas, and from experience he knew where they were most commonly found.

"You can avoid them?" Cirocco asked.

"I can try my best. But don't worry; even if we run into them, they never are much of a fight."

He tried his best to ignore the dullness in Fee's eyes.

More silence. Above, the sky darkened even more, and rain was carried on the wind. Cirocco hurried inside the cart's belly to sit amongst their things, while Fiorentino stayed up to steer their horse. He was an animal lover, it seemed. He'd nicknamed the thing when Cirocco arrived, and he spoke to it with affection as he slipped into the cart.

"Venire, Abramo; let's go!"

Leonardo was loath to see his son go so soon, but he said nothing. Now that he was standing on one of the balconies that looked over the Tuscan countryside, he regretted it.

Cesare was a man he wanted not to cross. There was something crazy about him. An insanity that could come only with bad breeding, or being at the bottom of a weighted pile. That he was a Cardinal meant little to the artist. Had he been instead a lover of the fine arts, perhaps he would have referred to him as 'eccentric' rather than insane.

"Are you alright?" Ezio appeared behind him, having returned from a short stay in Venice after some diplomat or other; "You've been out here for a long time."

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

"Fee."

"Ah." There was quiet. Then; "He seems closed off."

"He's upset. He wants to return to Romagna, but with Cesare breathing down his neck and the Borgia dogs on call, that's not possible."

Ezio gave a heavy sigh; "I'm sorry for this, Leonardo. I never thought he would react so strongly against the Creed."

"He was a gentle child, and despite everything, a gentle man. That's something no training can force out of him." Leonardo rolled his shoulders in discomfort; "I shouldn't have made that decision to train him. If I hadn't, things would have been better for him. He could have been married by now. Could have had an entire brood."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, my friend. Fee blushes when he speaks of a woman's hair. I think he may have been more like you. Quiet and reserved. The eternal eligible bachelor."

He smiled as he spoke, and Leonardo smiled back. If Fiorentino were with them he imagined the boy would give a knowing glance. But, like a month before, there was no young man to blush or nod, and no budding writer hard at work over his manuscript in the next room.

"Le montagne sono pericolosi," the artist pointed out; "More people die every year by marauders up there."

"Fee can hold his own. I don't much rate the Cirocco boy's fighting skill, but he seems to be agile enough. A good messenger, perhaps," Ezio's eyes glinted; "I might make him one. Can't have too many civilians knowing of the Creed."

"Fiorentino won't like that."

"Why not? He should be delighted to have a friend with him."

"That's…" Leonardo sighed; "Never-mind, Ezio. Just…try not to put Cirocco in too much danger, hm?"

And as the days wore on and the weather worsened in the mountains, so too did Fee find himself dreading what lay beyond. The elements he could handle. Lord knew he had run through worse. But his son? His beautiful Isabella? How was he to know what would happen next, if anything did?

Leonardo, however, had snippets of her life. Isabella had given birth to twins after Benvolio; Cristiano's, one girl and one boy. She spoke often about Fee, but such was the passion in her words, the letters often regarded him as a deep and meaningful friend than someone she used to know.

That Rome was the place the Borgia lived had no bearing on Fiorentino's mood. Cirocco thought of it, of course. And he was apprehensive of the idea that they were walking into a tomb.


	15. Innkeeper

When they reached Rome, the first thing Fee noticed was the smell of perfume in the air.

A grand lake of people welcomed them to the market place, which he thought had grown busier in the time he was away. Beside the cart, he could hear a merchant calling out his wares, and somewhere behind him there came the shout of a man disgruntled by a bad purchase. Cirocco was so amazed by all the bright fabrics that he was silent. It gave Fee time to bask in a place he had been to only a few times before, and never on a whim.

"I remember this place," he said to Cirocco when they passed a large, swept street; a place in which Fee first found himself meeting with a man from the thieves' guild, and later scouring the roofs for his body; "It's been renovated. A shame."

Cirocco gave him a queer look; "Why is that a shame?"

"Sono tutte bugie. I came here as a boy, and liked it more when it was in shambles. The people were poor, but honest, hospitable, and stood firm for their beliefs. These people are rich. They like to watch others suffer while they bathe in their wealth."

"That's awful. Is that what you truly believe?"

"Give a man a Florin, and he'll spend it on bread for his family. Give a man a thousand Florins, and he'll spend it on a night with the local courtesan."

The lake of people became a river in the narrower streets. Cirocco was amazed that Fee could navigate their cart through the tide. Ladies parted to let it go past, sending them coy smiles and fluttering their great eyes, while men shouted up at them various insults, some of which could make a conservative's hair turn white.

"Rowdy, aren't they?" Cirocco observed when they passed a tavern. In a small outdoor part of it, two men were facing each other in a drunken rage, perhaps for the hand of a woman neither of them could see.

"No sober man can fight quite the same as a drunken one." Fee replied, and though the words may have sounded like a compliment on another's lips, his were derisive, scornful; his abhorrence for violence a clear fact.

They continued on.

Two hours passed before Fee found the inn he was looking for. It had stables wherein they could put Abramo, and a place for the cart to be tied. As he went to arrange their rooms, Cirocco was first interested in the quaint ornaments that decorated the inn's tables, some of them being local and therefore exotic to his eyes. The counter that the innkeeper hid behind was large and polished, with the windows all latticed, shutters on the inside so as to avoid drunken men opening them at night. He saw the large fireplace in the first room; a strange thing, for the guests were sitting there reading instead of in their rooms, and some even spoke to each other in hushed voices.

"They only have one room with two beds," Fiorentino surprised him by sliding next to him, an apologetic smile on his face; "Mi dispiace, Ci."

"It's alright, Fee. Have you seen this place?"

It truly was a wonderful inn. There was a room full of tables where the guests would eat at mealtimes, and the owner was a jolly man with a great grey beard, fat from a lack of exercise and far too much gold to spend on food. There was a jar that read, however misspelt, PER BENEFICENZA, and though only Fiorentino's donation sat at the bottom it was a kind gesture all the same. The colour scheme was a warm, familiar blend of dark browns and whites, and the sunlight that managed to pour through the spaces between the opposite buildings seemed to flood the entire reading room with its glow.

"The owner is a good man," he nodded; "I've stayed here before. His daughter used to work here then. He tells me she's married now." He shook his head with a happy smile, as if there was some fond memory attached to the pair; "Come on. We should hurry. I want to find Isabella before dark."

They went up the stairs, which were clean and wide. A few portraits decorated the walls; some were better than others, and though Cirocco was no artist yet, he could tell which were by amateurs and which were by fully fledged painters.

"Before dark? Fiorentino, you must be mad. Night falls in a few hours. You can't very well search the entire city before then."

He shrugged; "I can make a start. I know my father has been in contact with her since she left – if he's still able to speak to her, it might mean she hasn't moved since she came here."

"About that," Cirocco began as they entered their room. But he was cut off by the large bay window he had caught sight of, itself draped with silk crimson curtains, and the walls a warm cream. The floors were wooden and clean, and the beds were beautifully hand-carved, mattresses made with duck feathers and the sheets fresh.

So stunned was he that he forgot what he was going to say. Instead, he watched as Fiorentino approached his bed, sitting on it with a contented smile, and waited until he had looked up and raised an eyebrow.

"What about what?" he asked.

"Scusi?" Cirocco said. Then, realising what he was saying beforehand, replied; "How are you so sure she will welcome you back? Three years is a long time to grow bitter."

There was a sadness in Fee's eyes when he responded; "I have no idea if she will or not. For all I know, she fell in love with Cristiano after they left and she considers Benvolio his son. Her new child is perhaps a testament to her new fidelity. All that I want is for her to know the danger she could be in. They may not live with me, but Benvolio is still my son, and I'd sell my own soul to the Devil if it meant he could live in peace." A mirthless smile rose to his face as he added; "Then again, if he exists, the Devil probably already has his eye on me."

Cirocco sat beside him; "You're far too harsh on yourself. None of this is your fault."

He shrugged. The time of passing blame had left, and though he still questioned God, he felt that He would damn him no matter what he was found guilty for.

"Come," Fee said as he stood; "We'll drink, and then we'll search."


	16. Lovers' Rome

As evening fell, the river of people became more a trickle, and that soon all but dissipated. Cirocco was surprised by how quickly the streets emptied. The noise went with it; by the time it grew cold enough for their breath to billow white, and the stars in the sky numbered in their thousands, all that could be heard was Fee's gentle breathing, the sounds of straggling children as they hurried home.

"We're not going to find it tonight," Cirocco said; "Why don't we go back to the inn and start fresh tomorrow?"

Fiorentino shook his head; "Forgive me, but I would rather go ahead. If you want to go and rest, you should – I want to find Isabella."

"By running yourself ragged? Fee, that's ridiculous. You mustn't push yourself too far. Our journey's hardly been the shortest, and you've slept least out of both of us."

He shrugged. There was a sort of hopelessness about him that dulled his movement. It was as though he had taken into account the size of Rome, the thousands upon thousands of people that lived there, and how many miles that potentially stood between them and Isabella. The time scale, too, was something of an issue. Fee wanted to return to Monteriggioni before the week was out; to do that, they would need to find his love in less than three days.

"Let's go back," Cirocco's voice was softer this time, imbued with both respect and gentle affection; "E 'troppo buio. When the sun comes up, we can start again." His hand looped around the crook of Fee's elbow, drawing him from whatever melancholy part of his mind he festered.

Fiorentino turned. In his eyes, so deep and kind, so vast in knowledge that he could neither speak nor write, there was such a sadness that his friend was almost lost in it, and for a moment he was reminded of kicked puppies and kittens without claws. He thought he saw in them all the failings of man, but realised it was just one; that man could not love another without some bloody river between them.

"And if I go back now, and she's close by?" he asked; "If I sleep and Cesare finds her? Ci, I appreciate your friendship and what it gives to me – the humanity you have which I've lost – but you must realise how important this is. How dangerous this is. By making our son, Isabella and I did something neither of us can take back. My Benvolio is in danger not only of Cesare, but of being discovered as an illegitimate child."

Cirocco sighed, his hair highlighted by the moon and his breath like that of a spectre's; "Like you said, Fee; Benvolio is Cristiano's son. Il matrimonio è un contratto. Signing it means all children are made legitimate, all money the man's, and all arguments between the couple the test of God."

His voice was bitter. It crossed Fee's mind that the mention of marriage must have been a tender subject for him. From what he was told, his parents' had hardly been ideal. His mother treated like a common ewe, made special for her wide hips and long flowing hair, and his father was a drunkard that put the fear of God in him through a whip and belt.

So it was in good confidence that Fee muttered, perhaps a detail he had omitted before; "Isabella was married when she fell pregnant."

There was silence. Then, with a note of disbelief in it:

"What?"

Fee was surprised to hear laughter in his friend's voice. He searched his eyes, but in the moonlight he could make out but the faintest outline of him, enough just to see his white teeth and his shining eyes.

"Isabella and I made my son when she was already married. Cristiano was out and I was heading to war."

"What a way to send a hero out!" Cirocco laughed, genuine mirth in his voice; "Il cane, Fee. I thought I figured you out; I'm glad to see there's still some mystery!"

He chuckled, though he felt heat rising to his face, and almost started when Cirocco put a hand on his shoulder. It was strange to laugh again. So long had he spent festering in his own gloom, he had almost forgotten what laughter sounded like.

"Come on," Cirocco said when their mirth passed, leaving them both breathless and light-hearted; "We should go back. There's little else we can do today. Give it until dawn – we can cover more ground and get your allies involved, too."

"How do you know I have allies?"

"I've been spending a great deal of time with your father, Fee. He likes to talk." Cirocco smiled, half of his face shrouded in shadow while the other was made silver, the moon still like a cloak over the cobbled pathway before them, the archways that led to various parks and streets hiding shadows underneath. It was strange to think that, as a boy, Fiorentino had been host to such beauty and could find only the darkness beneath it. That he would return with fresh eyes must have meant blood money could make anything appear beautiful, or it had grown lovelier in his Isabella's presence.

They went back to the inn. There was another young girl at the counter; not related to the owner, she waved them both up and gave Cirocco a wink, which made the young man blush. For someone who had just been teasing Fee of his escapades, he received his just desserts.

"See a pretty lady, do we, Ci?" he said as they went up, laughter in his tone; "If you'd like, I can put in a good word. Cirocco, uomo delle signore. A nice ring to it, no?"

"Hurry up," he said, but his voice was happy and he bore Fee no ill will; "I don't want to be stuck on the stairs all night behind you."

More laughter, and then the pair went into their room. They found that a maid had been in and laid out their clothes. With a smile, Fiorentino fell into his bed, but as Cirocco did the same he noticed that his friend was still looking out at the night sky, searching for something that he had lost and now wanted so desperately to find.

_Fiorentino da Vinci is a man with more demons than Adalfieri Zitoni._


	17. Home Comforts

Two days were spent searching, and though they found no trace of Isabella, Cirocco was elated. He learned more of Fee than he ever thought possible; learnt that the man was not just a keen reader, but a writer too, and with pen and paper he could make far better warfare than swords ever could. The few times they discussed his works – he was a private man – Fiorentino said that authors were truly the bloodiest of warriors, for they touched not the silver in men's sheathes or the blood in their veins, but instead warped something they felt was theirs alone; their thoughts.

The sun had set on the second day before they came across what they had come to find.

Cirocco had busied himself at one of the late shops, which seemed to the owner the finest of places. His eyes were that of a lunatic's on a full moon, and he bounced around from jewellery to jewellery piece like a toddler left undisciplined by his parents. His wares were shoddy, not for manhandling but more for elegant ladies' necks, wrists and, strangely, ankles. Outside, he could hear Fee exchanging words with a nearby merchant, and knew that he was getting nowhere.

When he finally emerged from the shop, necklace in hand, he was met by a weary Fiorentino at the door. The man looked as though he'd gone without sleep for days. It was true enough – Cirocco, try as he might, could never make him lie down, and when he himself went to bed he found that Fee often stayed up, perhaps sending his thoughts farther than they could ever hope to go.

"Nulla," he sighed, arms crossed over his chest; "They know a man by her husband's name, but say his shop seems to travel with each passing month. They've no idea where it might be now."

Cirocco gave him a sympathetic look. In his hand the necklace's false diamond glinted off the sun, turning orange, and shone into the eyes of a man who wandered past them. His apology was met by a vacant stare.

Then, recognition. A recognition that went further than Ci, for the stranger's eyes were locked on Fee, and when his friend looked up he saw a sudden pause.

"Fiorentino?" said the man; "Fiorentino da Vinci? Is that you?"

His hesitation caused perhaps the tensest silence Cirocco had ever stood in. As the sun set and threw shadows over the land, he noticed the stranger's eyes, like sapphires set in tanned leather, were trained so hard that they could pierce through metal. His hair was like dirty blond wire, which on his head was not unattractive, but no less desirable either.

"Cristiano," Fee forced a smile. He knew it was forced, because it was tight and held no true warmth, just some falseness he'd perfected over the years; "Yes, Cristiano! How are you, mio amico? It's been quite some time."

The man – Cristiano – threw his arms around Fee's neck and gave him a hug. There was a pained expression in Fiorentino's eyes when he pulled away, but however evident it was to Ci it seemed to be lost on the newcomer.

His face lit by a grin, he spoke with such happiness that the pair might have once been childhood friends, rather than acquaintances who often met by chance; "Ah, it's been far too long! How goes the writing? Your father; is he well? What am I saying? Isabella speaks of him all the time. His reputation is growing fast, no?"

"Yes, it is. I think soon he'll have all the Lords and Ladies wanting him to paint their portrait," Fee said. It was a few more minutes of questioning before he said, as nonchalantly as he could; "How is Isabella? Your son – Benvolio, I've heard?"

"Oh, yes – you never met the boy, did you? He's a fine child. I worried his head was too round, but he's grown into it."

A flash of sadness went through Fee's eyes, his shoulders slumping, though it was gone too soon for Cristiano to notice. His son was in good health, it seemed. That he was growing was welcome news to his father, and despite the pangs that went through his heart, he was glad his decision had given his son a future.

"Isabella is well, too. We welcomed another child a few months ago. My second son, Ferdinand. A strong set of lungs on him. You've never heard such wailing."

Fiorentino laughed, then to get away from the subject of children, introduced the man behind him; "This is Cirocco. He's…well, he works as a half-apprentice to my father. He's learning the trade through him."

The pair shook hands. Ci noticed that Cristiano spent a long while looking at him. Perhaps he saw him as a threat? Though why he, a one hundred and ten pound, long-limbed man built for nothing physical evoked any threat he'd no idea.

"Learning from Leonardo, eh? Uomo intelligente. Anyone who learns under him is a master in their first steps." He turned back to Fee; "Won't you come and join us for dinner? Isabella has spent all day cooking a meal for my business partners, and they've cancelled."

Fiorentino crossed his arms. The suddenness almost made him panic, and he stammered his words.

"W-what? This is…short notice, my friend."

"I know, but Isabella does love company and I think she'd love to see an old friend even more so."

His lips tugged, lost in fond memories; "Yes, it's been a while since we've spoken."

Cristiano gestured down the wide streets, wherein the shadows were growing denser and the merchants, aware that now their customers were going home, were packing their goods away, closing the stalls they worked at for a long and bitterly cold night.

"Follow me. She'll be terribly worried if I were to come much later than eight."

Fiorentino looked at his friend, almost as if asking permission. With a nod, Cirocco and Fee hurried down after Cristiano, and though the air was filled with the final cries of birds, Ci swore he could hear his friend's heart racing.


	18. Warmth in Abundance

Outside the home, there was a definite chill in the air. It swept across the street, this one narrower, more enclosed than the last, and whistled through trees that had been so graciously left by labourers, architects and the like.

Cristiano's house was of fine make. The quality was evident in the stylish bricks, the polished iron black gate, and the small front garden that looked as though it was tended to. Fiorentino looked towards the front window – it was large, though the curtains drawn – and saw a small candle flickering behind the silk, showing there was some life within.

"Come inside," Cristiano smiled at them both as he led them up the path; "I worry the boys will be in bed. I can't hear Ferdinand crying."

"He cries that often?" Cirocco asked before he could stop himself. True enough he was one of many, but none of them had cried so much that it was strange for them to be quiet.

"Per tutto il tempo! There's no stopping him. I say it's due to Isabella's stress while she was pregnant."

"Stress?" Fee repeated. Once more his eyes reflected the moonlight, and deep within them a sort of fear festered.

The man waved his question away as though dismissing it; "We had some troubles with the business. My father passed it onto me early, you see. We're upgrading now, but while she was pregnant with my boy, well; we were hardly the richest merchants in the city."

_The world of business is a temperamental one,_ Fee thought while Cristiano opened the door: _I don't envy him his work. Well…perhaps I do._

Inside, the house was warm. The wind had been enough to ruffle all three men's hair and turn tanned cheeks a light shade of red, but as soon as he stepped inside, Fee wanted to bolt. He wanted not to see his beautiful Isabella in the role of another's wife. He did not want to see the life she had made in that living room, with muted colours on decorative furniture, the tiny table in front of a divan filled with children's playthings, a cut-apart dress. There were portraits on the walls; Venice in different seasons, celebrating different festivals, with the largest portrait hanging over the divan to show Carnevale. The people, though painted, wore masks of different colours, so bright and enthusiastic about life that Fee's heart ached, for he knew that picture was there to remind her of what she had lost – the shy, quiet child she'd kissed that night, and who had then vanished from her life.

"A wonderful home," he praised Cristiano as they were encouraged to sit. The divan was soft enough. There were small cushions that made it comfortable, and when he inspected the wood, Fee wasn't surprised to find it was an expensive craftsman's work.

"Yes. But where is my wife?" he called for her. His voice rang through the house, and went to the tune of: "Isabella! Where are you? We have guests!"

"Sto arrivando!" came the reply, which was noticeably sharper than Fee remembered her to be; "The boys were be especially fussy. I-"

When Isabella stepped into the room, she fell silent.

Her eyes travelled first over her husband, who wore a smile too large to have belonged to a man with his business partners. Then she noticed Cirocco, a person she didn't recognise, and passed him a warm smile of welcome as she gave a dignified curtsey.

Then her heart stopped.

She had looked beside him, at the man who sat so upright and wore such a mask, it was a wonder no one could see through his act. Fiorentino was much different from how she remembered. He was taller, if not noticeably so, and his face had lost what little baby fat remained to become chiselled, with a hard jawline hidden beneath stubble. His shoulders were just a tad broader and, despite his upper-class shirt, there was an unmistakable strength in them that was to her something symbolic of his sacrifices.

But it was those eyes that made her pause. They were still the same. Great brown pools that could swallow oceans; fountains of knowledge and love, of kindness and good intention, which threatened to take her and all other married women by their hearts.

As she took him into account, so too did Fee take her. She was plumper, he noted, around the hips and arms. Her legs were covered by a long red gown, but he fancied they had grown too, so that her baby might have been comfortable as it grew inside her. Her beauty shone still, enhanced by the glow of motherhood, and his heart raced a thousand miles across the sky when he looked into her eyes, so wonderful despite their greyness, made softer for a mutual love between them.

"Fiorentino," she breathed; "It's you."

"Isabella…" he replied.

Then, after a moment of silence, Cristiano said; "And Cirocco Acqua – his companion."

Fiorentino looked away from her. To stare too long would blind him, as if he were looking into the sun. He had come with a mission; he couldn't get distracted by love left to rot, and refused to let his son be endangered by his own selfish ways. Isabella was married. She was married when first they made their boy.

He had been down the path of hopeless love one too many times to believe it might turn out differently.

They sat down to a meal of pasta and pizza bread. Isabella was a wonderful cook, her husband praised. She kept him and the boys well-fed, and though she often grumbled about the constant workload, was happy to make an impression for Cristiano's business associates.

Though he tried to avoid it, Fee and Isabella ended up sitting across from each other. The dining room followed much the same design as the living room, but minus the divans and the tiny table, replaced with cabinets full of liquor and beautiful drawers with elaborate metal handles. There were no playthings in the room they sat now.

Cirocco lingered at his friend's arm, but why he had no idea. He liked Cristiano well enough. The man was affable, and when he spoke it was with a certain enthusiasm that was hard to miss. Isabella was a beautiful woman, he agreed, but her appearance didn't make his heart leap and he had no idea why Fee held her in such high regard, for she seemed quiet and subdued for most of the meal.

"So, Fee," she looked up at him with guarded eyes, but guarded so that no one realised the depth of feeling in them; "What brings you to Rome?"

"Scrittura. I'm trying to compile data."

"Sounds complicated," Cristiano said.

"Not at all. Just…well…different."

Isabella smiled at him; "You always were different, Fee."


	19. Teary-Eyed, Candlelit Sky

A weak cry from upstairs interrupted their talk.

Fiorentino looked up. It was not a cry from Benvolio, but rather, that of a baby, too young yet to know it was truly alive. He didn't take much notice of Cristiano opting to go instead of Isabella. It would give him a chance to tell her his message in private; a way to do it so as not to raise suspicion, or even pique her husband's jealousy.

"Please, continue," he smiled at them as he stood, the baby's wail loud enough to make itself heard; "I told you – he's a fussy child. Born with far too much lung."

"Much fussier than Benvolio was," Isabella agreed, though her eyes lingered over Fee when she said it. He saw in them an immeasurable sadness, deeper than the depths of any cave.

There was silence as Cristiano went upstairs. His footsteps echoed for some moments, then became fainter, softer, until they heard a door open and his voice coo something unintelligible. When the door shut again, they all let out a breath they didn't know they were holding.

Isabella took a sip of wine; "Cirocco knows, I take it?"

"How did you know?" the man replied, but it was more out of admiration than shock. He thought he had been quite clever at hiding the fact he knew.

"You've been staring at me all night. Era ovvio. Either you find me very pretty, or you know there's history between Fee and I."

There was a fierce blush on Cirocco's cheeks when he looked at his friend. Fee, though more experienced, still had the faintest colouring as he stared at Isabella. Then he smiled, one ear listening out for Cristiano's return.

"You told me once I could never lie to you," he said, though wistfully, calling back to a memory they both shared; "I should have remembered."

Isabella nodded; "Why are you here? I thought you were never coming to visit."

Cirocco would have been blind to miss the flash of hurt in her eyes. So intense was it that he realised their surroundings were suddenly dulled, the candlelight muted as her sadness radiated through the air.

Fiorentino was struck by her bluntness. But he had no time to think on it – if he was to make the most of what little privacy they had, he would have to hurry and tell her his news.

"There's much I have to tell you. Soon after you left, I-"

"You were captured by Ettore Norelli and taken hostage. You fled soon after for two years. Your father told me; he mentioned that you'd returned, but nothing in detail."

"Lo ha fatto?" he said, but then shook his head and went on; "One of the reasons I came out of hiding was a man – a Cardinal. He came to Romagna and meant to arrest me."

Her eyes were expressionless for a moment. Then something registered, perhaps Fee's words, and the sudden realisation that came to them was marred by horror.

"Fee, you're not saying-"

"He knows who I am. I've no idea how, but he does. And if he knows who I am, there's a chance he could discover you and Benvolio."

She shook her head, denying what posed a threat, for she had settled in to her life of regret and was reluctant to leave it; "He won't. Hardly anyone knows what happened between us, Fee. You made us leave so we would be safe."

"Do you want to run the risk with our boy?" he replied. Beside him, Cirocco was silent. He was used to arguments, but there was something intimate about the one he was viewing now – something passionate that was absent from his parent's. Perhaps it was love? Love that had never had a chance to grow, was never meant to be ignored for the time it had been, and was now strained under a threat too terrible to contemplate.

"Of course not – no, I don't want to. But I have another son to think about now. Cristiano won't want to get up and move after we've spent so long trying to get his father's shop under control."

"You're in danger here!"

"We're in danger everywhere, Fee! You said it yourself. Even with our history so far behind us, it stands to reason that if anyone were to find out, Benvolio and I are always going to be at the top of someone's hit-list. That's why I wanted to stay with you, Fee. Because even if I'm in danger, at least I was with the man I love."

"Non, Isa! Not love. Loved. Loved. You loved me, but now-"

She blinked tears away, though they were like small crystals, unnoticeable if not caught by flickering candlelight; "I know, I know. Too much time's passed for you to still love me. You probably have some other woman now."

"Of course not. Who could ever compare to you? Who could compare to the mother of my child, the woman I first knew?"

A feeling of something white-hot burned inside of Cirocco. He looked away, willing for their conversation to end, for the tension to leave the air, for he had no wish to become privy to domestics and wanted not for Cristiano to come down and suspect something. Fiorentino was a good man. Perhaps he was hurt by choices made for him, but there was nothing inherently evil in who he was or what he wanted out of life.

Fee took her quiet to explain what had happened later on. Cesare's appearance at Monteriggioni, and his parting words. He said to her that if she was adamant on staying in Rome, she would have to watch who she spoke to; for now, he said, everyone was the enemy, and those who smiled at her were just hiding their dark intentions.

"I miss the boy who used to cry at snails," she said to him after a moment's silence.

"I still cry when I step on snails," he defended, to which she smiled and he went on; "I stepped on a sick rabbit a day ago. Cirocco was there."

"I've never seen a man beat himself up more," he confirmed. There was mirth in Isabella's eyes as she teased him, though by the look of Fiorentino, he was not ashamed of his compassion.

"Look who woke up!" the announcement had them all turn, and Fee's mouth went dry. Large eyes moistened as he looked at the child in Cristiano's hand, with dark hair and little grey eyes, knuckles pressed into his mouth as he gazed at them all; "Benvolio wanted to see his uncle, no?"


	20. Strength to Move On

Fiorentino had a terrible pain in his heart, like a spear had been thrust through his chest and twisted. He was immobilised by a love he could hardly fathom; something so deep and innate that, if someone dared hurt his little Benvolio, he felt he would tear them apart.

"Here, son," Cristiano said, not realising that Fee had fallen silent; "This is your mother's friend, Fiorentino da Vinci, and his friend Cirocco Acqua."

Benvolio peered at them both. Fee noticed that his eyes lingered on himself, as if some stray thought had wandered into his mind, but moments later he was looking at Cirocco and ignoring the other man.

"What a healthy boy," Ci praised. He spoke to fill the silence. Beside him he could feel Fee's tension, almost hear the blood and sadness that ran through his veins, but he wouldn't risk Cristiano learning of his friend's secret. "Bello. Hello, there."

The child peered at him again. His eyes sparked confusion, marred by tiredness. His knuckles were wet with spit and he made a sort of gurgling noise, to which Fee's heart broke once more.

"Daddy," the boy mumbled at Cristiano.

"It's alright, son. I apologise. He's tired."

Fee kept his heartache from his face; "You have a beautiful boy, Cristiano. You should be proud."

Isabella stared at him, for he could feel her eyes. They held in them an intensity that never seemed to dull. Underneath the table, her leg brushed up against his, perhaps in comfort, but in his melancholy state he could hardly feel it, could hardly remember that his son was well cared for and had a future he couldn't hope to provide.

Cristiano offered the boy to Fee; "Here – you never did get to hold him. Take the time now. Who knows; the next time you visit, he could be married!"

His laughter was met with forced chuckles and, not without some hesitation, Fee took the child from the man's arms.

The instant he had him, Fiorentino never wanted to let his son go. There must have been some intrinsic instinct in the boy, for he rested his head against his father's shoulder with not a whimper of protest passing his lips. His heart ached when he smelt the warm, black hair that was so like his, felt the little weight in his arms that would only get heavier, and realised that he'd already missed so much of Benvolio's life.

"Mio dio!" Cristiano took his seat beside Isabella, who unconsciously shuffled away from him; "He's not struggling! Benny hasn't done that before. He usually gives a good fight before he lets a stranger hold him."

"Fiorentino's no stranger, dear. He's one of my closest friends."

"The boy doesn't know that, does he? Tonight's the first he's met Fee."

Cirocco was listening to them talk, since it was so apparent his friend was not. Beside him, Fee was cuddling the boy, muttering endearments into his ear too tender to come from a guest, and he could feel the sadness radiating from him like the most intense of heatwaves.

"Ah, Fee, take my advice," Cristiano laughed as he turned from his wife; "Never marry the most beautiful girl you've ever met. She can make you do anything she wants."

Fiorentino had the good sense to look up and smile; "I doubt I'll find anyone as beautiful as Isabella."

The woman blushed. Thankfully, her husband didn't see her, or else she would have a frosty reception with him when their guests left.

Benvolio was soon asleep. His snores were comforted, safe in the arms of a man he had met only once before, but seemed to remember that meeting. Fiorentino could remember when his face was shrivelled and his head round; now, he had fatter cheeks, softer skin, and had grown into his head in such a way that it was hard to believe he'd had that problem before.

"Amazing! Absolutely amazing, Fee! Isabella and I have to wait hours for him to sleep."

"All babies have their preferences. Perhaps my shoulder appeals to him," he gave a little laugh, which Isabella and Ci both knew was more sad than wistful; "Un bambino strano. The best kind."

What followed was another painful goodbye for Fee to add to his list. Isabella took the boy back upstairs, asleep now, but twitching as soon as he left his father's shoulder, stirring as though he might wake up. Her scent must have calmed him to some extent, for he never did.

Cristiano leaned forward to take them in confidence; "I'll tell you a secret, my friends – I could never support this family if it weren't for my new deal. Isabella doesn't understand the fine details of contracts, so I haven't bothered to tell her, but when they're older I expect my boys will have a profitable business set up for them."

"What deal have you made?" Ci asked, more out of interest than for prolonging the conversation. Overhead, they could hear Isabella's footsteps as she walked into a room, her coos faint but there.

"The Pope himself purchases clothes from my shop. He tells me his followers adore what I have to offer, but we all know they're for his mistresses. Hardly my concern. All I need is his gold and support."

Fiorentino choked on his drink. In a moment, he saw Cesare being far off from his family to right above it, dangling strings that soon would attach and make them his puppets. It made him physically sick. All he wanted was for a quiet life for his son. Was it too much for Cristiano not to ruin that hope in a matter of moments? A matter of gold and deals that ultimately meant nothing?

"I'd advise against it, my friend. There's a lot to be said for a man who would use God as his decoy."

Cristiano flicked a dismissive hand; "Who cares? Not me. I need the money to support my family. Ah, how I miss the life I used to lead, Fee. Even with beautiful Isabella at my side, I sometimes wish I were a bachelor with no real worries. Like you and Ci."

There was a moment in which Fee wanted to shout that he had never carefree, never had a hope to be, but it was cut short by a knock at the door. Their heads turned sharply, and when a deep pit opened in his stomach, he heard Isabella say; "I'll get it."

"No, wait – Isa, don't!"


	21. Sweet Justice

Fiorentino was too late to reach her before Isabella opened the door.

Instead, he grabbed Cirocco and dragged him to the kitchen, where he all but threw him into the pantry. There was an indignant squeak as he hit something inside. Fee didn't have the time to check if he was alright.

"Guardie!" Isabella called from the hallway, either telling her husband who was at the door or warning Fee of their presence. He hurried off into an adjoining study room, where there was a desk and a few books, and an array of quills of differing sizes. There was a closet beside the window in which he immersed himself. Amongst the various outfits, some being more extravagant than anything he had seen Cristiano wear, Fee sat down with his blade extended, thankful that he'd at least had the good sense to hide it in his belt.

There were muffled footsteps in the hall. He heard them enter the dining room, where they stopped. Voices. Voices that spoke at different volumes, and sounded angry.

"Please, sirs," Isabella's came back, her smile evident in her tone, though he could hear the faint strain that went with it; "Sit down. I'll go and fetch some drinks, and we can discuss this matter like civil people."

He imagined Cristiano nod; "Yes, that would be best. Hurry on, beloved."

In the darkness, Fee worried for his beloved. His eyes grew used to the shadows that clung around him, like insidious seas that never moved, just swallowed him whole.

Then, a weak moonlight filtered through as the door opened. He held his breath in anticipation of the end. But then he saw the beautiful grey eyes of his Isabella, her lips a hard frown, and was urged out by her whispered voice:

"Follow me, Fee."

He stumbled out; "But, Ci-"

"I've already sent him upstairs. There's another way, through the kitchen."

Nodding, Fiorentino followed her, his footsteps careful so as not to alert the guards. They were still talking in the dining room, but it was less angry and more matter-of-fact – as if they weren't taking no for an answer but were prepared to humour them.

"Through here," she gestured to a door in the kitchen, tucked away in some corner so that Fee had never seen it; "There's a staircase that leads straight through the master bedroom. I told Cirocco to go to Ferdinand's room."

"Why the baby's?" he asked. Where he stood, with his wrist clutched by Isabella's hand, he could look down into her eyes and see in them an intense fear. They flicked down quickly to his lips, and then back to his eyes.

"If things start to go wrong, I want you to take the children and leave. Andare il più lontano possibile. Make sure they don't get my boys."

His mouth fell open; "What? And leave you behind? No. I refuse. If things go wrong, run upstairs and I'll protect you. I-"

"No, Fee!" she said, and her voice raised just a hint above a whisper, enough to make him fall quiet; "You save my sons. I haven't spent three years wishing you were here, only to watch my entire family die for it."

Hurt resonated in his eyes. He turned away from her, and after a moment's hesitation she grabbed his hand again, pulling him back from the doorframe to search his face.

"I didn't mean that." She said.

"It's alright," was his reply; "Remember what I said? Death always follows me. It's my curse."

He tried to leave again. Once more, he was stopped. This time he turned to Isabella with a sort of glare, a frown marring his face as he looked down at her.

"They're still out there!" he reminded her.

She smiled; "Yes, but I have time to do this."

That was all the warning he got before she kissed him. It was a gentle thing, no more than a peck on the lips, but it spoke volumes. Isabella's eyes were full of a sort of sadness, but also a keen pleasure at seeing him again.

"I love you," she told him.

He gave a great sigh; "Anch'io ti voglio bene, Isabella. I wish I didn't, but I can't escape it."

With one more lingering look at each other, Fee hurried up the stairs.

The master bedroom was a large place. Designed in a strange way, he imagined that the bedroom was right over the dining room and took up a section of the living room. It was decorated with a large, four-poster mahogany bed, which he struggled to look at, and bedside tables filled with petty things – jewellery, tonics, flowers – while the windows were drawn with big, red curtains, the walls coloured a beautiful crimson that curled like a rose stalk around a stick. Rather than the white furniture she'd had in her old home, Isabella had chosen polished wood this time around; perhaps to fool herself into thinking she could forget Venice, and what had happened there.

The hallway was much better for hearing what went on in the dining room. Fee was almost glad for his training as he crept towards the banister, listening below to hear one of the guards describe him, and call him a murderous traitor. He had heard it too much to react to the words. He went along the hall, and thought for a while about opening a window and telling Cirocco to gather the children for escape.

Instead, he peered into one room to find Benvolio, lying on a tiny bed made especially for him, his head rested against a pillow as around him, there were the essentials of childhood. A toy chest that couldn't close for all his toys. A small candle with a shade around it, that when the candle was lit would throw out images of cats, dogs, and whatever else his little mind loved. A wardrobe he imagined to be filled with clothes he neither liked nor wore much, but Isabella insisted on keeping. A chest of drawers that had a dozen different books on it, which made Fee's heart ache as he looked, for he had dreamed of the day he would take his son in his arms and tell him stories from near and far, imparting on to him the wisdom he had gathered in his short eighteen years of life.

Fiorentino crept towards him. Gently, he lifted him from his bed. The boy's eyes fluttered open and he murmured a protest, but Fee shushed him with soft words.

"There, there, my boy. Non piangere, ora. We wouldn't want anyone to know we were up here, no?"

Benvolio looked up at him for a moment. In his eyes, Fee saw worlds of confusion, endless potential, and his heart burst in that familiar, painful way, like someone had blown it up with a canon.

"Uncle Fee?" he murmured. Once more, it felt as if a spear had been stabbed through his chest.

"That's right. I have to take you into Ferdinand's room," he mumbled as he went out of the room, hurrying down the hall in a manner most silent; "Go back to sleep, little one. All will be well when you wake up."

Benvolio put his head back on Fee's chest. There, he fell asleep again. It was in this way that Fiorentino was reminded of their painful separation, and he almost tripped over a small table with a vase as he tried to blink tears back.

Cirocco had Ferdinand in arm when he came in. The man was good with children, it seemed.

"What's happening?" he asked when Fee came in. He noticed there were many baby toys on the floor, as if Ferdinand were much older and already played with those things. It was a task to navigate around them.

"They're speaking about me. They haven't mentioned you yet."

"I have no idea whether I'm relieved or not."

"Well, it's not your name being branded as a murderous traitor's."

"Please, Fee," he rolled his eyes; "Hardly anyone is going to believe you, son of the great Maestro Leonardo da Vinci, is capable of murder."

He shrugged; "That's my hope. And yet, here I am."

"Those weren't your fault. That was a Creed much larger than yourself, and you have no place in it."

If Benvolio weren't in his arms, Fee would have put his hand on his friend's shoulder. Instead he just gave him a look of warm gratitude.

"Thank you, my friend. But this isn't what we should be worried about. Isabella's told me to take the children and leave as fast as we can, as far as we can, should things go wrong down there."

"And risk her death?!"

He shook his head; "I'm going to give the children to you. If things do go wrong, I won't let her get hurt. Not again. You will go through the window – there's a ledge large enough for you and the children, with boxes to climb down on – and take them away. I'll meet you near the docks. Should I not arrive within three days, go on without me."

It was the alarm in Cirocco's eyes that made Fee so sure he would argue against him. Instead, he gave a heavy, solemn nod, as though he felt her were agreeing to give his soul away.

"Fine. But do make it back. I don't want to lose a friend."

And as the voices grew in pitch downstairs, and the sound of a tumbling vase filled the air, startling Benvolio, who let out a distressed cry, Fee gave to his friend the children and helped them out of the window. Once they had disappeared into the darkness, their outlines made silver by moonlight, he turned to the stairs.

"Cristiano, lei è in arresto per alto tradimento. You're coming with us."

"What? No!" he heard mad scrambling as he hurried down the stairs; "Isabella, help!"

"Leave my husband alone!"

There was more struggle, and when Fiorentino erupted into the dining room that was before so tranquil, he was greeted with her piercing scream.


	22. Escape

Isabella lay like a crumpled up ragdoll on one side of the room, but she had fought hard. One guard was limping from her as though he had just faced a tiger. She herself was alive; a bloody nose and perhaps a fractured rib, but alive.

It was the sight of his beloved so hurt that Fiorentino lost what little cool he had. In the midst of the dining room – he only realised later that the table had been overturned and shoved to the side – he lunged at the nearest throat he could find, holding it with all of his strength.

"Dogs!" he barked in the twitching, lightly bearded face of a young man; "Attacking a woman? Is that what you Cardinal bastardi do?"

So enraged was he that Fiorentino barely felt the stab in his shoulder. He knew it had happened only due to the howl of Isabella. In the periphery of his vision, he registered Cristiano kneeling over her, stroking her face and saying soft, soothing words as he trembled behind Fee for protection.

The battle was short and bloody. Fee made quick work of the guards, his eyes going noticeably vacant as he slashed, stabbed, and speared them with his blade. Isabella had to look away. She had seen him in action before, but the precision with which he killed had always unnerved her; a secret she vowed to take to her grave.

When all was done, and the dust settled, Fiorentino was standing in a circle of five bodies, like a grim sacrifice to Lucifer. He stood as though he just realised what he'd done. But there was no time for mourning. There was no time to once more cradle the innocence left shattered by his Creed. He had to escape with his beloved, and her beloved.

"Come," he said as he went to the kitchen, gathering up as much food for the journey as possible; "There's no time to waste."

"Fiorentino da Vinci, what have you done?" Cristiano yelled through the door. He was red in the face from anger, but still there was some gratitude there – knowledge, perhaps, that if Fee hadn't been there both he and his wife would be dead, and quite possible their children too.

"Saved your hide," Isabella appeared behind him and squeezed through the small gap he left; "Show some respect, Chris. It takes a strong man to protect his friends."

Fiorentino pulled her towards him. Gently, he began to clean her nose, because he was worried the injury might alert suspicion and he had no wish to be contending with more guards. As he did so, he looked into her eyes. They had such depth to them that he feared he might have become lost. Such was her power over him, he had to make a conscious decision not to lean down and kiss her.

"Cristiano, my friend," he went to the man, who he noticed backed away from him ever so slightly; "I know this is confusing. But trust me when I say that you and your family are in great danger here. Cesare ti vuole morto."

The man froze; "And why would he want that? I'm in league with the Pope! I do as he asks, when he asks!"

"Cesare is not a man to be reckoned with. He'll kill anyone that gets in his way, as well as their families. Please, Cristiano, trust me when I say this – I would do nothing that would put your boys in danger. Or your wife."

The surreptitious glance Fee and Isabella exchanged went unnoticed to Cristiano. He was too far in thought to realise the deep love that lay stagnate in their hearts. Had he known that Benvolio was truly Fee's, or that his wife longed to have the assassin back in her arms, perhaps he would have happily turned the man in.

"Fine," he growled; "We'll go. Go wake up the boys, Isabella. Sii veloce."

"No need. The boys are already with Cirocco. We shall meet them at the docks, and leave soon after."

Cristiano's face almost twisted in indignation; "You kidnapped my sons?"

"Please, Cristiano, realise that I knew how this would end. Better for them to be on the streets with an honourable man, than in here with five cowards."

"You still took my boys without my permission."

"You can argue about it later," Isabella came between them, not that she thought Cristiano would lunge at Fee, but because she was certain the act would bolster her husband's sense of manliness; "Right now, we have to leave. We can't very well stand here and wait for more guards to come."

As they gathered what few supplies they could, Fiorentino made sure to take a toy from each of the boys' rooms. It wasn't their fault, after all, that he had made another appearance in their lives. Why should they suffer for his sins? If he could ease it with just one toy, even by a little, he would do so without hesitation.

The walk towards the docks was long. The sun broke above the horizon, setting the sea aflame and turning it into a diamond, as the trio hurried their way through slowly growing crowds. Seagulls squawked at each other as though offended by their presence. Isabella panicked for a moment when they could not immediately find their sons, but soon enough they discovered Cirocco in a small alcove by the workers, holding the baby tightly to his chest as he sang him a sweet lullaby.

"There you are!" Isabella fell beside them, her knees hard on the wood, and began to kiss their faces, ignoring the pain that shot through her from her fractured rib; "I was so worried. Are you all alright?"

Ci nodded; "Fine. The boys wanted to sleep, but we had no place to go."

"There's an inn not far from here," Cristiano pointed out as he too fell to see his children.

"It's crawling with guards. I couldn't risk them knowing who I was, or who the boys were."

Fiorentino stepped up and once more took command of the situation; "Get on the boat. We haven't time to waste."

"Where going?" Benvolio asked, his eyes sleepy as he looked up at the man, who to him seemed like the most mysterious of strangers.

His face softened; "To Monteriggioni, little one. To my home."


	23. Numbered Days

Fiorentino stayed in his chambers during the voyage back to Tuscany, and when he came out to drive the cart he said no word to anyone. Cirocco worried for him. He worried that the man was angry with himself; that beneath his calm, brooding exterior, there was an undercurrent of self-loathing that threatened to sweep him away.

When they reached Tuscany, he explained to his prozio what had happened, and said that since he had brought this destruction on them he would also provide them with an alternative.

"It's a noble thing to do," Mario agreed, greeting them with a wide smile; "Your uncle Ezio is waiting for you upstairs. Before you see him, I have a matter to discuss with you."

"But," Isabella put her hand on Fee's bicep, and she was glad that Cristiano thought her faithful; "he's promised to take us to our rooms and help us settle in."

The older man gestured to some maids at the corners of the foyer. They hurried over to them with grand, genuine smiles and asked them to follow so they could take them to their rooms.

"Fee…" Isabella hesitated.

Cristiano tugged at her arm; "Come on, amore. Let the man be to his work. We have the children to think about."

Fee turned to them and offered a smile. It was the sort of smile that was both apologetic and weary; sapped of energy from a long day's travel.

"I apologise for this, my friends. Please, follow the maids. They will make sure you're all settled."

"Will we meet at dinner?" Isabella asked, Benvolio pressed against her cheek, for the boy had requested to be picked and had thanked her with affection. It was a beautiful sight to see. A sight that Fee wished he'd seen in different circumstances.

He glanced at Mario, who nodded. It seemed he was not being sent too far away. If he were to be given another mission, so soon after his return, he would think his great-uncle mad.

"Of course. Go and rest, friends. You've all earned it," he looked at Benvolio and Ferdinand when he spoke. One hand twitched as though he would reach out and stroke his son's cheek, but it daren't move more than that.

When the couple had gone with their children and the maids had vanished with them, Mario took Fee to the study. Cirocco was busy speaking to Gian about their journey. The pair were close, he had noticed, but he was just glad that the apprentice had a distraction from his extravagant lifestyle.

"That was a foolish thing to do, Fee. Now we have more mouths to feed and an imminent war on the horizon."

He put his hands on his hips, forcing his posture to relax; "What would you have me do? Erano in pericolo. If we're so noble, why not save a few lives as well as take them?"

"You're not understanding me, Fee. How are we supposed to guarantee their safety here? We have children of our own that we're uncertain about. Ezio and I have had to recruit that friend of yours, Cirocco, and-"

An indignant squawk rose from Fiorentino, and it was so out of character for him to make such a sound that Mario fell silent. It gave him the opening to object.

"Cirocco? Cirocco? Have you gone mad?"

"Cirocco is a young, agile man – a perfect messenger," Mario sat heavily down on his chair. It was then that Fiorentino realised how weary he looked. He was older than the boy remembered him to be as a child, with his black hair tinged grey and his milky, sightless eye surrounded by a socket of wrinkles, which seemed to have no true presence on the other. His brow was heavy with worry lines. When he looked up and his brown eye caught the orange sunlight streaming through the arch-way, he seemed to advance another ten years.

"But he's not a warrior. No assassin. Cirocco is my friend. I don't want him to follow this path – it's death and destruction and constant hardship."

"We fight for a noble cause!"

"There's no cause nobler than that which seeks to change the world through intelligence, not brute strength!"

"I won't hear this!" he stood once more. It was the movement of a man still in his prime, and Fee felt terrible for admitting his admiration. "I've told you what must be done. Cirocco deve essere un alleato. We have to minimise the civilians in this."

"So you can sleep better at night when the civilian death toll is lower?" he challenged.

"Ah, my boy; if you weren't blood I would have run you through with my own sword."

"And here I am, your loyal sheep, who despite his own objections went and did as you asked? To be run through by my own great-uncle – it would be a mercy in this dark age."

There was a voice near the doorway which spanned off into the foyer. Fee and Mario both were caught by it, for it was firm, resolute, and belonged to a man both held in high regard.

"Is that my son I hear?" Leonardo smiled at them, effectively stopping whatever argument was going on; "Fiorentino da Vinci; are you too old to give your father a hug?"

Fiorentino laughed and went to him. The hug they shared held lingering affection. No matter how old he grew or how much he did, Leonardo mused that he would never be more to him than the gurgling baby he had plucked from the streets.

"I see we have guests," he added when they had parted from each other; "Isabella and her family. How did this happen?"

"Guardi. There were…it was their orders to come and root me out. They know that Isabella and I are close. Cesare would have probably killed her and her children, had I arrived a day later."

It was only Leonardo who noticed the shudder run through Fee's body. He did not call attention to it.

"What does Ezio want of me?"

"I've no idea, Fee. Go and see him." Mario waved him out, then called; "and send Cirocco to my study!"


	24. Despairing as the Night Goes On

Fee ended up avoiding dinner. Instead, he lingered in his father's workshop reading his books, sitting in his favourite chair as the fireplace flared out with orange tongues, and for a time he could imagine all was peaceful. He could forget that his illegitimate son was downstairs with who he believed to be his father; he could forget that Isabella was longing to see him, to speak with him in confidence; he could even forget that Ezio was waiting for him to no doubt discuss their clandestine acts of murder.

It was not until he heard the shrill sound of an excited child going to bed that the man dared leave his sanctuary. Leonardo asked him not to go. They spent so little time together, and he was loath to waste it after so long apart.

"I have to. Ezio would have my hide if I ignored him completely."

The artist smiled; "Send Ezio to me – if he wants my boy's hide, his hair will decorate it!"

There was a brief moment they shared which was filled with affection, and then Fee left to Ezio's room. His uncle was found in his room above the Villa, pacing with the anger of a cuckolded husband, and when he saw Fee he swore at him.

"Cristo, Fee!" he yelled; "I've been waiting here all day like a fool!"

"I've had issues to solve," was Fee's response; "Would you have me abandon my duties for the sake of this?"

"Your duties are given to you by blood!"

_Yes, and my blood is that little boy!_

"This Creed needs all our capable men, and yet I can never seem to find you! Why is it I can watch loyal men die and my own nephew can't be bothered to show himself?"

Fiorentino sighed and went to the wall, where he stood straight and ready for an attack. He wanted not to argue with Ezio, but such was the man's way that he felt it was unavoidable.

"And what's so important that it can't wait a week?" he asked. His fingers were looped in his belt, and he seemed exhausted to the point of sleep.

Ezio gave a great sigh; "Don't be so dismissive. I know you're having your own problems, with Isabella and her boys, but Cristiano is a strong enough man to care for them."

Fiorentino gave a snort but did not reply. To think that Cristiano might put Isabella's safety before his own made him want to double over. What could he do but all he was able to protect her?

"Cesare covets his brother's place."

"As Captain General?" Fee asked; "That seems likely. He's hardly suited to Cardinal life."

"I daresay he's even that. Perhaps in name, but no God smiles at him."

"Can we pass judgement? If He exists, we burn in Hell with Cesare."

"Don't ask if our Lord exists, Fiorentino. That attitude might see you in worst straits than you'd realise."

"Will you continue? I've no want to debate philosophy."

He shook his head; "Il mio povero Fee. If Cesare Borgia becomes Captain General, he'll have an entire army at his fingertips, and what do you think will fall first? Rome? Venice? No. It'll be Monteriggioni, and it will be our family he targets."

"And what do you suggest we do?" he asked. The way he stood was now to attention. He stood up, leaning on the nearest surface he could as his brain tried to absorb all the information he was getting.

"I was hoping you might have some ideas."

There was a cruel laugh; "And after all this time, you now deign to give me a choice?"

"Don't make this a fight of want, Fee," Ezio warned; "I never wanted my father to die, nor my brothers – your father, Fee. Your father is watching over us now and weeps for how you're acting. He wants you to be as dedicated as he."

"I've heard stories of my father, Ezio. A man who shirked work and trained hard. I admire him only for the fact he was a human and my father."

A pause dragged out, rather like the moments before a man's execution, and Fiorentino thought that his uncle may have died standing up. But instead a wild fire appeared in his eyes, and he spoke in the harshest mutter.

"I should take your skin for that!" he growled; "I don't want to have to hate you, Fee, because you're my nephew and my only link to Federico-"

"That's just it!" was Fee's bellow; "I am your last link to Federico, and for whatever reason you saw fit to force me into his work like some…some assassinando psicopatico! The moon can't be accounted for this lunacy and neither can bereavement!"

"I was trying to protect you!" Ezio yelled.

"And you failed!"

More silence. In it, Fiorentino, his eyes pricked with tears and a quiver in his voice, went on.

"Had I a choice, perhaps a stillbirth would have been best for me. Had I been privy to my life, perhaps then I would have thought twice about breathing the air. Maestro tried to sooth me as a boy, but can you sooth a murderer of his heavy conscience, or a child of his first sin? I'm not your creature. I can't be. I can't…continue with this."

He turned and gave a great sigh. Ezio reached out for him, but when the man spoke he paused.

"I'm taking a horse tomorrow and going to Rome. I'll turn myself in, and my blood will hopefully settle his lust enough to let others escape."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Ezio took a step towards him; "You're speaking like a madman. You need rest."

He grabbed his shoulder, but Fee shook him off; "Leave me alone."

"I need-"

"You need a cause. A reason to live. Someone to blame for my father's death, and the denouncement of your family. But I don't need that. I only need now the few short hours with my father; and from then, whatever may come next."

And before Ezio could grab him, or speak to him, or make him see the light in his life, Fee was gone. He assumed he went to his father's room.

_Cesare won't take my nephew! _He promised as he went to Leonardo's room, where he heard within the faint laughter that went in Fiorentino's smile, the chuckles that emanated from his father as they sat side-by-side: _I'll make the boy see the light. Ah, mio Fee! How can you despair? You're so young. So young. Have I made this happen?_


	25. Loyal Ci

It was on that very night that Fee, under cover of darkness, went down to the stables with the intent of riding to Rome.

It was a clear sky, without cloud or storm, without rain, and he could clearly see the stars as they twinkled down at him. Though his mission was solemn, it seemed the night was not. Calm was Fiorentino's demeanour as he began to strap supplies to the beast – water, food and clothes, for what good they would do him when he reached the end of his journey.

"Fee?"

He did not turn to the sound of his name. He knew his caller to be Cirocco, and felt guilty enough for the fate he had put him to. If the man wanted to berate him, he would do so without Fee's reply.

"Why are you preparing a horse?" Ci asked when he reached him. The air was cold; his breath came out as white smoke, which curled and disappeared in the darkness.

Fiorentino did not turn when he said; "I'm going to Rome."

"Why would you do that? We just escaped!"

"Cesare's bloodlust can only be satisfied if one of us dies. Our lives are to him but nuisances, and he won't rest until we lay buried. My intention is to give him mine, in the hope he doesn't come and take my family."

Ci gave him a harsh snort. Though he was glum about his forced indoctrination – he had originally come to tell Fee he hadn't expected it, and he didn't blame him for it – he could see past himself to know that Cesare would never be satisfied with one man's head. Fiorentino was but a stepping stone to him. Low in the pack. Like any loyal soldier, his life would be good for an example, but nothing more.

"Non essere un idiota."

Fee glanced at him; "What else can I do? My father, my son, my friends and my family are all in danger here. Unless we move to a different location – which prozio would never condone – Cesare could easily have our hides."

"Yes, and he could do the same if we inter you with your ancestors. What good would it do to lose one more protector, when they're already so thin on the ground?"

The horse gave a whinny which was lost to the night. Its hot breath snorted out like a ghostly shroud, and though it was gone in the next instant, Fee allowed it to give him a moment of thought.

"Do you believe that, my friend?"

"Of course I do," Cirocco replied, his voice irritable; "You're a good man, Fee, but prone to act rashly. You must think better of yourself. Would you deprive your boy of his father?"

A small chuckle came out of Fiorentino's lips. It was sad, almost unbearably so, and even though Ci withstood it he could feel the depression that seeped from his friend.

"He thinks his father to be Cristiano. Should I disappear, he'll be none the wiser."

"And yet, you would let him lose one of the few guardians he has."

"Ci-"

"Come inside. Let's speak of it in my room. It's terribly cold out here."

The wind was picking up in the north, and so Fee agreed. They went up to Cirocco's room, in which there was a lovely fire burning and two beautiful chairs set before it, with cushions that were much comfier than they appeared. Fiorentino sat in the one farthest from the door, whilst Ci busied himself with making some snacks – an assortment of cheese and some wine, which he kept locked in the cabinets that sat at the end of his bed, his dresser having been filled with several crafting tools and a book of art.

"You keep a good room," Fee commented when he took his goblet, the tongues of the fire making the silver gleam; "Minimalistic."

"I've always been this way. Una forza di abitudine. I don't mean to waste things, and so my room is the most efficient I can make it."

"This is a noble house, Ci. You can afford to have more than the bare essentials here. I'm surprised Prozio hasn't insisted."

"I haven't had him in my room since he gave it to me. No doubt he'll want to, now that I'm one of his men."

A guilty blush danced on Fiorentino's face and he looked away. He did not want to be reminded of the part he played in Cirocco's indoctrination. That was another regret to add to a long list of regrets already standing.

"I agreed out of my own accord," Ci reminded him after a while. He tucked his legs under him, relaxing on chairs he had either had made or had somehow crafted himself. "I want to be clear on that. It wasn't you who put me to the assassins. If God didn't want it, He wouldn't have put me here in the first place."

Another harsh laugh.

"I know you struggle to believe in Him. Time will tell you differently."

Fiorentino sampled his wine; "We shouldn't debate philosophy. We're here to talk about my leaving."

There was a soft smile on Cirocco's face when he looked at his friend. So soft, in fact, that Fiorentino had to look away from it, because he had only seen the same on Leonardo's and he knew it was a preface for a deep discussion.

"If you were going to leave, Fee, you would have never followed me up here. You feel guilty enough to give your life, but you don't truly want to do so."

"Tu non lo sai."

"Yes I do. I know the man that spent hours at the field every day, and I know this one too. He's a gentle creature."

"A monster," he protested; "My hands have been red more times than they've had food pass through them."

"That's your cross to bear, as now it will be mine. Hardship is a part of life."

"Hardship?"

"This may be a different kind, but it's hardship all the same. Come, Fee," Ci settled down once more; "Tell me some of your missions. Perhaps it will enlighten me to what I've got myself in to."

And so, Fee did. He told him everything, from the bloodshed to the running; the thieves and the courtesans; the mercenaries and the villains. He told him of the many different skies he had passed under, and those that were best for killing. And he did so with tears in his eyes.

Cirocco just listened. He regarded Fee with nods of his head and small noises, but said no more. It was part of the healing.

And as the night outside began to burn into day, he knew he had succeeded in keeping Fee with them. The man was a dear friend, and he hoped they would be companions until one of them fell.


	26. Uncle Ezio

That Cirocco had listened to him had made Fee a little more hesitant to leave for Rome.

Instead, he spent the next day in the library, losing himself in the great worlds that as a child he would inhabit, hiding from his cruel life. There were more wise words in them than he had ever come across in reality. Whereas Leonardo was to him the font of all wisdom, he would urge his son to read; it was a necessity if ever he wished to be on the intellectual level of other scholars his age.

But no amount of reading could make his problems disappear. Isabella was still waiting to speak to him, and with her his son. There was still much to be done in terms of fortifying the town. Each night, he feared, he would go to bed with either more blood on his hands, more regrets in his heart, or less sanity in his mind.

"Fee?" he looked up at the sound of Ezio's voice. Jolted from his fantasy world, he gave the man a small grunt of acknowledgement, but soon went back to reading.

His uncle smiled. It had been a long time since he had seen the boy hunched up in a certain chair, a book balanced in his hands as his legs were tucked underneath him, with a fire roaring to the side and the host of bookshelves behind. The desk that had been moved down there, in the case that they had a scholar in their midst, was filled with books already read and studied, and left abandoned in favour of more.

"You weren't there at lunch."

"Did you feed Isabella and her boys?" he asked, avoiding the question, but in such a way that it brooked no room for argument.

"They went into town to eat. She and Cristiano have a very healthy baby. A strong set of lungs on him."

"I heard him screaming this morning. All the makings of a politician," he said, and then with a smirk; "or a businessman."

Ezio entered the room. It was warmth, with the sunlight blocked out with thick curtains in favour of the firelight, itself a dancing orange glow that was just enough to give sight. He was hesitant to think he would have to leave it again.

"Their boy, Benvolio – he's quite the uno carino, no?"

Ezio sat on the corner of the table, for there was but a corner left with the books stacked high on top of it. He folded his arms across his chest, now donned entirely in a normal, puffy shirt and brown trousers, socks of soft cotton made especially for his feet.

Fiorentino shifted and lowered his book; "He is. Quite the angel. Not that I've seen him much since he arrived."

"He picked flowers this morning for his mother. I came across him after breakfast. A sweetheart, if ever I saw one."

"Yes," Fee gave an uncomfortable swallow, but it was discreet enough not to raise Ezio's suspicions; "Isabella's done well to teach him manners. I've heard she's read him stories you and I would marvel at."

His uncle gave a quiet laugh. Then, as the tension began to rise again, he asked; "Have you noticed he looks nothing like Cristiano?"

Another gulp; "Not all children look like their fathers, uncle. He looks more like his mother."

"Truly?" Ezio leaned down, arms folded, and with his eyes level to Fee's, said; "I think he looks more like his father."

Fiorentino let in a sharp intake of breath. His arms did not flail, nor did he react in a violent way, but his book did fall from his hands and he did have to take a moment to gather himself.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"It was obvious. Venire, Fee; you and Isabella both look guilty as sin when Cristiano calls the boy his own. Did you truly think I wouldn't notice?"

"I didn't want you to!" he stood, sparing a glance to the archway, within which he could see no maids and hear no people approaching; "I wanted him to be safe from this nightmare. To not be doomed by blood to this Creed!"

Ezio stared at him; "And you thought the best way to protect him was to fool another man into thinking him his son?"

"Better that than to know his father's a murderer. Uncle, I beg of you – don't indoctrinate my son. Please, leave my boy alone. He's so young. He's so innocent. I can't let him be witness to the things I've seen, or become the tool of this 'greater cause.'"

Fiorentino's words were so impassioned that, for a moment, Ezio was overcome with emotion. He did not want to see his nephew upset. He still saw Fee as that dribbling baby from eighteen years previous, who would gnaw and chew at whatever he was given, no more capable of reading a book than he was cleaning out chicken coops. That alone was another to make his heart bleed.

"Leonardo allowed you into this cause because he knew you would be protected," he said; "He knew, if nothing else, no Templar could kill you without a fight."

"And I blame him no more than I blame the Templars for existing. Good men will always have evil counterparts, and that too will lead them to evil. But I cannot let this rule become true for my son. I have to make him the exception. Uncle, please, I beg of you not to let prozio know. Benvolio is too young for this. Too innocent."

Ezio thought for a moment; "He's of Auditore blood."

"No!" Fee said; "He's of da Vinci blood. And now, he's of Cristiano's."

There was a long moment in which Fiorentino, exhausted by his expenditure of emotion, staggered to the side of the room, leaning heavily on the wall with one of his shoulders while his fingers were tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He would wait for Ezio's decree. He was a good soldier. But he would not, in any scenario, let his son be taken from his childhood and thrust into the world of villainy he too had become a slave of.

"I'll let him be," Ezio said, and as Fee gave him a grateful look added; "but I mourn this, Fiorentino. I mourn that you feel you have to give up your loved one to protect her."

"You've given one up, too. What makes us so different?"

"Nothing. But I regret every day I spent without Christina by my side, and your Isabella; she's a beauty of no mistake. She aches as much for you as you for her. Nipote, I love you, and I love my great-nephew as much, and I pray you not be as lonely as I when I gave up Christina."

Fiorentino let him pass and said no more. He felt he needn't reveal that he was as lonely as Ezio. But, there was a mild comfort; not only would his son not become a part of their grand misdeed, his uncle knew too the sting of losing love, and being alienated from it as such a young age.

Before he left, Ezio squeezed his shoulder.

"Venire," he said; "We're to go on a mission tomorrow night. Together. I want to speak to you in more private conditions."


	27. Magic Land

Ice fell over all of Italia that night.

The states were covered in it when morning came. The sun, though weak and brittle, set the streets a glitter, the cold wind giving life to cheeks so dull, and even when the snow came – clouds as thick and burly as the strongest men descended on them before noon – there was a sense of wonderment in the air.

It was the weather that caused Ezio to put their mission off a day, though he was loath to do it. No horse could plough a wagon through that mess. It was at least four foot deep; there were wooden boards up against the archways so that it didn't fall into the Villa, and when Benvolio went outside to explore, he disappeared.

"There we go," Fiorentino laughed as he hoisted his son out of the snow, putting him on his hip with a smile; "You should be more careful, Tesoro. We don't want you to become a snowman."

Benvolio smiled up at him, eyes bright with amazement, but he did not wriggle out of his grasp. Perhaps he knew that Fiorentino was safe. Perhaps, after the incident with falling in, he'd become a little fearful of the snow.

Inside the Villa, there were many fires crackling, some of them tended to by maids while others were left on their own. The embers floated up through the chimney like whimsical creatures. Fee told his son that they were faeries, and that in leaving the Villa they could go out in search of more children to make warm.

"Where's Mummy?" Benvolio asked as they wandered through the halls. They had just come to the art section, where they discovered Gian to be gathering up some supplies, and though he raised an eyebrow at him Fee received no more than a smirk in response.

"I have no idea. Shall we go find her?" he asked.

They went through the halls once more. It was a turn of luck – and regularity – that Ferdinand had begun to scream at the exact moment they passed the library, and Fiorentino wandered in to find Isabella tending to him.

"Oh, what is it, my boy?" she cooed, lifting him to her chest; "Mummy's here, darling. What is it? Did something frighten you?"

Fee gave a warm smile and tickled his own son's stomach; "Perhaps he can sense when trouble's near."

She turned. Her face was a picture of beauty. Once more the fire was a glow, sending out a warm orange light all around the library, and in it she had found the perfect place to comfort her son. Beside her, Fee spied a horde of books; not his, and meant for children, as they were less complicated and more based on the fanciful stories of mythical beasts.

"Could you try and make him stop, Fee?" she asked as she approached him; "I've tried everything. He won't sleep. It's worrying me to no end."

He hesitated for a moment. He had tried his best to avoid holding babies, and did so only out of necessity. It reminded him too much of that night. But then he looked in Isabella's eyes, so bright and hopeful, so loving after three years apart and all those nights left cold.

"Naturalmente," he said, swapping the infants over so he was holding the youngest.

At first, Ferdinand screamed louder. He was frightened of the new man and his strange smell. He wasn't comforted by the large, strong arms that enveloped him, and it was only until he gazed up in eyes so large that he was quiet.

"What is it, child?" Fee asked in a soothing, soft voice, bouncing him in a rhythm; "Why are you crying? Are you hungry? Are you tired? Be at peace, little one. You're safe here. These four walls will still be when you sleep, and when you wake, softly your mother will tend to you. Sleep, Tesoro. Sleep, now. We shall watch over you until the very sun burns away."

It wasn't so much the words he said than the way he said it, for Fiorentino's voice lulled Ferdinand to sleep. His eyes, heavy with tears, closed and were rested, lying still in arms now safe enough to be cradled in, and near the smell of a man he could grow to like.

Isabella watched and smiled. In her arms, Benvolio was drifting to sleep, his head rested against her shoulder.

"I've never once seen him go down so easily," she told him; "You've got the magic touch, Fee."

He gave a warm, genuine laugh, though it was touched by sadness; "I would have made a good woman, no?"

"Please – the plight of a woman is something no man can imagine," she teased; "but…I think you would have made a wonderful father."

Fiorentino's eyes grew melancholy, and he turned from her to instead look at the baby. He was a handsome boy. Cristiano's features. Isabella's hair. An amalgamation of both for the nose. He was a future heart-break, and he only hoped his song would be less mournful than theirs.

"Where is Cristiano?" he asked, after a time.

"Gone with that Claudia of yours; I think they've plans to restore one of the wells."

"He's fit in well with the family."

"Oh, yes. He's the type to do that. Give the man a rod and he'll feed you for the rest of his life," she looked down, fiddling with her son's hand tiny hand; "He's compassionate."

Fiorentino sighed; "He was always good for you."

Isabella shook her head. There was something terrible in the way she did it, as though even in the face of her two children she couldn't find it in herself to think Cristiano was her soul-mate.

"Isa," Fee brushed the back of his hand across her cheek, misplacing her hair; "This is for the best."

"I know. It's just hard to see you and tell myself I can never be yours again."

"Fiorentino?"

The man stepped away from his companion as Ezio entered. He was sure his uncle saw something, but if he did he said nothing, instead giving a polite smile to Isabella and nodding at the children.

"Stanco?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. Very. Poor angels don't have much energy in them."

"It's for the best. Children can have the stamina of ten men, and only one father to run after them."

Fiorentino was careful to put Ferdinand back where he belonged, and together with Ezio, bid farewell to Isabella. He went with his uncle to the study.

"We'll have to be tenacious if we want to reach Venice in this weather. It's awful."

Ezio swept his hand across the study desk, whereon there were piled many different stacks of papers and a thousand books. Fee was sad to see them fall to the floor.

"The children like it," he defended as he went to stand by him; "Must we go so soon? Our people are bound to need us. This weather can give the chills, and chills with infants and elderly won't make for a happy winter."

He shook his head; "Leonardo will tend to them as best he can. If need be, Claudia will take money out of the chest and use it to send for medici. They will be fine."

Fiorentino acquiesced to making plans for their travels. Some time into them, Leonardo appeared. He too asked for Fee to stay, at least for a little while, so in the case that an epidemic happened he could have an extra pair of hands on deck.

But Ezio was adamant, and so it was decided that, in two days, they would head out to Venice in search of information, so that together Fiorentino and his uncle could help take down Savonarola and restore peace to Florence.

"When we have the Apple, things will be more harmonious here," Ezio promised his nephew and friend; "We can hide it away or destroy it. Such power shouldn't be in the hands of mortal men."

"And who, then, created it? We seem to not be addressing the real question," Fee said.

"Do you remember when you first saw it? Seven years ago, I think. You were still a boy. Eleven."

Fee nodded; "Sì, sono stato. And whatever that thing threw out gave me a headache I've never since had again. Father, you yourself said that it mustn't fall into the wrong hands – it would drive weaker men insane."

"That I did." Leonardo said. He put a steadying hand on his son's shoulder, for he knew the look in Fee's eyes; if he began to pace around the room, people would grow nervous for his sanity.

"Then why are we not asking ourselves who built it in the first place?!"

"Because I worry that's not for us to know, mio garzone. Please, be calm. I know you're under a lot of stress, but you're going to hurt yourself if you carry on like this."

Ezio cut in; "Yes, your father's right, Fee. I've seen a moving painting tell me her people were responsible for it, but I…I have no idea how. Relax. There's not much else can be done now."

Fiorentino sighed. He felt the weight on his shoulders grow heavier, but he daren't ask about the moving painting, nor anything else that might relate to it. The Apple was enough for him to cope with.

Leonardo gave him a warm smile; "Why don't you go up to my workshop and look at my latest painting? Ezio and I have some things to discuss."

"We do?" Ezio asked.

"Yes, we do," the artist replied.

Sensing there was more to the conversation than perhaps Fee wanted to be privy to, the man nodded at them both and hurried out. As he went, he passed Cristiano. The man affably called to him and said that the wells were in a bad state, but give him time, and they would be running before long.

"Good!" he called as he hurried up the stairs; "I'll speak to you soon, Cristiano! Be careful of the snow!"

"Ah, I'm sure my boys will have me out in it in no time!"


	28. Marching Onwards

The trek to Venice was long and arduous.

Fiorentino and Ezio, though well prepared, took great pains to escape the countryside, for it was white and treacherous when covered by snow.

"There's much to be said about men who die of frostbite," Fiorentino said to his uncle as they clopped along the path; "I fear we might be one of them before the day's end."

"Please – there's not enough snow on the ground to bury us. This isn't a tombstone."

"Davvero, uncle, we should watch where we tread. Our horses aren't as agile as we are."

Ezio gave a fond huff of laughter, for he had met horses more nimble than men, and though they had been lost to his errands they all held a special place in his heart.

"I think they'll be just fine," he patted his horse's side – a great stallion with ebony flanks, breath so hot it billowed smoke, and hooves more powerful than that of a dozen hammers. "You need to learn how to trust your steed, nephew. It's going to be one of the best friends you have."

"I've ridden horses before. Do you forget I've been in the Creed's service since I was a boy?"

"Since you were? I'm sorry; when did you become a man?" Ezio teased; "You're much too young yet to have experienced life, Fee. It's the way of the world. At your age, when I first began to learn my destiny, I realised what I thought I knew never existed, or if it did it barely scratched the surface of what the world had to offer."

Fiorentino let out a little sigh as his horse went on. Ezio was a good man, but he often forgot that Fee had been on his quest too, had been a supporting assassin in many of his adventures, and even when he had first taken life had become privy to knowledge not meant for boys his age. It irked him to think that no one took his experiences seriously, for the pure fact he was young.

"Hurry, nipote," Ezio cracked the reins of his horse, which sent it galloping off; "We're near to Venice."

It took them a further hour to reach the place, and when they did they discovered that there was a hot issue in the herald's news. A woman, apparently convicted of witchcraft, was sentenced to hanging. There were boos in the audience around him as both Fee and Ezio pushed through, their hearts closed off to the plight of the poor woman and her obviously untrue sentence.

"I hate coming here," Ezio admitted; "Men wear executioner hoods, and most can't see they do. It feels wrong to watch."

_If only we weren't the true executioners among them_, Fee thought.

They went on in silence.

The horses were left at a stable, but with training to later seek out their owners. Roaming horses were often seen in Venice; either abandoned or loose, not many would call them a problem, and though they often ate apples or stole goods, the horses were widely considered to be a sign of good luck. That good fortune or, for women, a strong man, would soon enter their lives. They needn't know that the next horses were in fact the bringers of death.

"What must we do?"

"We're to go to my contact in a local tavern," Ezio said. Around them, people milled, a never-ending river of fabric, flesh and blood, but too absorbed in themselves to hear their discussion; "One of the thieves thinks he can give us information on Savonarola. How the Medici fell from grace so soon after Lorenzo's death."

Fiorentino's eyes softened; "I assume that his son wasn't too much of a leader."

"The boy's smart. Strong. Give him a throne and he'll rule as fairly as his father did." Ezio shook his head, his face weary, and though the skies above were still overcast Fee fancied he saw all the sunlight die from his eyes; "Lorenzo era amico di mio padre. They were close, because my father rescued him from drowning. He was one of the few men who could tell me about him. I'll miss Lorenzo's friendship."

They reached the tavern soon enough. It was a house of ill repute, with the insides heaving with muscled, moustached men, dirty from sweat and grease, muddy farmyards where they worked made evident through the mud tracked onto the flagstone floor. Women in little clothing danced around, showing strange and exaggerated faces that seemed very much like desire, but to Fee was a gross distortion of it. And all around, there was a stink of sweat in the air, a desperate attempt at pleasure; hedonists not by nature, but by circumstance.

"Ah, fresh blood!"

The pair turned their heads to a busty woman, about eight years Fee's senior, who in a corset looked to be a brothel owner. She wasn't; just a reveller out with her friends. Her lipstick was blood-red and her cheeks were pink, for blush came in separate colours and she wanted to at least feign humility.

"You two look like you need to relax," she wrapped her arms around both of their shoulders, much like a snake would her prey; "Why not come and sit with us? My friends would love to meet you."

"I'm sorry, mio caro," Ezio said as beside them Fee blushed a bright scarlet; "We haven't time to stop. Perhaps later. Right now, my nephew and I are trying to find someone."

Her pout was enough evidence of her displeasure. Her arms slithered away from them and, though she made to disappear, instead she asked who they were meeting.

"A man," Ezio replied; "A friend of mine – Carlo. I need to speak with him urgently."

She rolled her eyes; "At the bar. He's with the tapster. Come and find us afterwards. I'm sure we'd love to make your acquaintance."

Her departure included a wink to Fee, who Ezio fancied she saw as the innocent type. He wasn't the sort to go revelling in the sinful; instead, he always found himself in those situations.

"Carlo?" the boy said as they pushed through the crowd; "I recognise that name. Yes; I met him a long time ago. Unless it's a different leader we're talking about."

"He leads a small faction of thieves that just recently joined with La Volpe. He says that the main reason none of them have been caught is because he stations all of his men in different areas, and so they aren't under any suspicion."

Fiorentino smiled; "Yes, I know him. This should be interesting."

And as they approached Carlo, who with a smiling face and red nose, seemed drunk, Fee felt a strange connection to his past – as though it was not all blood and war, but in that, friendship, tenacity, and survival.


	29. Great Beasts of Venice

As Ezio plotted with Carlo, who recognised Fee as a wide-eyed young boy who once chanced across his thieves, so too did the revelry around them increase.

The songs that played drifted in the air, itself stagnate with sweat and desire, as the dancers became all the more lewd. People arrived. People left. Fiorentino watched them with a sort of interest, arms crossed as he leant against the bar, and beside him he heard two courtesans speaking to each other.

"There's been awful business stirring near the marketplaces," one said, full lips sipping at a large glass of something black, fluttering eyelashes that would catch the hardest man's heart; "I hear it's hard for anyone to get started now. I just saw little Alberto being kicked to the ground for not buying a permit for his stall."

"A terrible time to live in. All of our hard work, going to waste. Awful."

Fiorentino felt for them, to the extent he could. He knew that they would pack up and leave the place before long; people loved courtesans everywhere, if not outwardly, and for ladies in their profession they were guaranteed a constant custom.

"Then it's settled," he turned to see Ezio clapping Carlo on the shoulder; "You're a good man, mio amico. La Volpe has done well to bring you to our cause."

Carlo laughed, his black hair thick and wild; "I've long been an admirer of your trade, Ezio. You and your men take the attention from mine, and that was invaluable to people without your survival skills."

"We're glad to have helped," Fee said. It was then that Carlo turned to him, smiling as brightly as ever Fee had seen, and gave the boy a happy pat on the shoulder, as though they were long lost friends.

"La Volpe's told us much about you, Fiorentino. He praises you as one of the only sane Auditores going."

"Hey!"

"Ezio, I apologise, but sanity is something you are not best known for. Or sottigliezza. Your nephew here, the da Vinci boy – he's got a good head on him."

Fiorentino tilted his head down in thanks. To hear that from someone who had many times put others before himself was refreshing.

They left soon after. Ezio, though still young and virile, was too tired that day to go along with the revelry, and Fiorentino had no wish to. They went to the nearest inn, where they spent the night in separate rooms with their separate thoughts, and the next morning met up and went on to the docks with their horses.

"Carlo seems a good man," Ezio said as they went; "He'll be a great addition to the Creed. La Volpe does well with the people he finds."

Fee nodded; "Good people are hiding everywhere. If we had time, we could seek them out more."

"Fee, I hope that isn't a jab at the Creed," he said, eyes narrowed ever so slightly when he looked at him. It seemed not to matter how old Fiorentino grew; one look from his uncle or father, and he felt as though he were that four year old boy again, willing to do anything to make them happy.

"No, of course not." He said; "I'm just pointing out that there are a lot of people out there who would be only too happy to join us. Not many think that the Cardinals are a wholesome breed. And I'm sure quite a few would rather see the pope hang than reign."

Ezio gave a little laugh. Around them, the stream of people was more a trickle, not yet full with the consumers of the fifteenth century, and they could more or less speak freely without fear of persecution.

Not that they weren't already in fear of it.

"Yes, I'd like to see that Borgia hang, too."

"Yet, you let him live."

"I was not in my right mind. For some reason, I thought mercy might set me free. I see now the error of my ways. How can a man who showed my family no mercy been given a different sentence? I won't be lenient the next time I get my hands on him."

Fiorentino thought for a moment; "How can you be so sure that will happen? Rodrigo has his guards now. Unless his own kill him, I think that it might be impossible for you to have another chance."

There was a silence in the air as the docks appeared before them. Grand and spacious, it always surprised Fee the amount of workers there, for they had a wonderful ethic and yet none of the same faces, all of which seemed grateful for a day's work that might never come again. He wished he could feel that same gratitude; being a noble son, and the heir to a fortune should his family die, he felt he was lacking that labourer's honesty.

"There's our ship," Ezio nodded towards a boat. It was large, with wide sails and beautiful designs, intricate patterns winding along the hull as though they were carved by the most skilled knives. Fiorentino adored it. He thought his father would, too, and prayed that soon he and Leonardo would be reunited and he would be able to recount his adventures to him.

"A wonderful boat."

"Fiorentino, I must ask you something before we leave," Ezio turned to him on his horse. The beast whinnied, but was ignored.

Fee gave him a puzzled look; "What is it?"

"Your Isabella. Benvolio. What do you plan to do with them?"

He shrugged; "Give them a safe place to sleep until we arrange something else for them. What can I do? I'm supposed to be the helpful uncle; to do more would overstep the mark and make Cristiano suspicious."

There was a snort as Ezio fixed him with a look of sheer sadness, and in it, Fiorentino once more saw the humanity he tried hard to supress.

"Isabella adores you. I fear she won't go quietly to the life of a goodwife."

"That isn't for me to tell her to. But, I can do no more. Dai. Saremo in ritardo."

And without a word, the pair went up to the boat, ready for the next long stretch of time wherein they would discover more, and become closer for it.


	30. Proposal

Many days did Fiorentino and Ezio spend on that boat. The sun was hot and unforgiving; the sky was an endless blue, broken only by single wisps of cloud; the sea was a constant ripple, sometimes larger, carrying them towards a destination none truly wanted to be; and somewhere in it all, through thick and thin, Fee vowed that he would stay beside his uncle.

"I've not seen a sight as beautiful as this since I was a boy," the man said as they lingered by the banister. There was land far off in the distance – Fee fancied it was some uncharted island, with only tribesmen for inhabitants. The simple life they so revered was lost to their advanced cousins. He could see the trees, nourished and cared for only by nature, and the sand that shone, glistening as it was, like gold set aflame in a pirate's vast treasure chest.

"We're terribly off course," he pointed out; "We should have been in Firenze days ago."

Ezio leaned down and rested himself on his arms. It occurred to Fee that he had never seen his uncle so relaxed before, unless he was at home. There was a certain something in his face; a tranquillity Fee had never known him to have, and a sense of something more, something bigger than he could realise.

"What's the rush? There's nothing for us there but work and enemies."

He glanced about the ship, where shipmen and sailors were working side by side, shouting lewd words to each other in the absence of women; "Not that here is much better."

"Fee, you're far too prudish. When I was your age, I already had a heavy bedding experience. What about you? A single woman."

He blushed; "I prefer cerebral gratification than carnal. Isabella è speciale. But, even if not her, I'm not the man to fall into bed with whoever he meets, Uncle."

There was a clap on his shoulder. Ezio looked at him, grinning from ear to ear, and when he spoke it did nothing but make a heavy weight form in Fee's stomach.

"Don't you worry, Fee. We'll find you a pretty girl once we're home. Perhaps you'll loosen up more if you have a lady on your arm."

"I want no lady on my arm. My arms are full of books."

"Books don't keep you warm at night," Ezio sang as he walked towards the mask, whereon they did most of their duties and kept a constant vigil for enemy ships; "Warm fires barely keep out the chill!"

_Sì, but blood and decay are constant friends, are they Uncle?_

Fiorentino followed him.

On the mast, there was a definite wind blowing, and he could see for constant miles. The unending water could have swallowed him. There was a nervousness as he looked out, most certainly a land creature, out of his depth if ever he were to fall off his vessel and be caught by some deep-sea faring beast. That Ezio could adapt so easily made Fee ashamed. Why was his uncle, so much older than he, so much better than him at acclimatising?

"Ah, Fiorentino!" he breathed in the air; "Do you smell that? In the cities, there's only horse manure and baking. Perfume, if there's an available girl around. Here? Nothing but fresh air!"

He gave a nervous laugh, balancing on the thin wood that held up the sail, careful not to trip over the winding rope attached to the sheet.

"I think that fresh air is the smell of a lot more animal's manure, and salt."

The sun fell over them like a golden shroud. It was nearing night. Night, as Fiorentino had quickly learnt, was the most troublesome for the sailors, for if there was a problem there was reduced visibility, and pirates were more liable to attack. Ezio and he weren't afraid; they could defend themselves if ever the situation were to arise. But for the many others on board? Could only two of them take an entire crew of bloodthirsty sea-dogs? It was a difficult scenario to picture himself in.

"Venire, live a little. Don't think like that. Be creative – like Leonardo," Ezio threw his arm around his nephew's shoulder; "Fiorentino, you know how much I care for you, yes?"

He nodded.

"You're my brother's son. Without you, I would have no memento of him, no other memories but the way he died. You understand that?"

"As much as I can hope to."

Ezio took a deep breath; "I want you to help me kill Rodrigo Borgia and his son, Cesare."

Fiorentino turned to look at him, careful not to fall; "I thought I was already?"

"Your missions have been minimal in comparison to mine. Now that we have Cirocco, many of your errands are to be dealt with by him."

"You told me he was only a messenger."

"And he is. But messengers are equipped to kill, too, and with the messages he carries he's going to know how to. Cirocco will be safe, Fee," he reassured; "but now, you're free to come and work at my side."

He paused, rubbing a hand over his chin. There was a definite melancholy about him as he imagined his life, steeped already in blood, now to be put on tasks more dangerous than many he had done before.

"Isabella is safe, with your boy," Ezio added; "Cirocco will be one of our finest soldiers, if Mario has anything to do with it."

"Where will I be based?"

"At the villa, but called away for assignments. They shouldn't last long. Attività accessorie alla nostra causa. But they'll be much more involved than your current ones."

He sighed; "I don't want to leave Father. He already wants me by his side as much as I can. My leaving did nothing but make him paranoid I would do it again."

"Leonardo was very hurt. He loves you, Fiorentino," he ruffled his hair; "You're his son as much as you are my nephew. But he will understand if I need you."

There was a long pause. In it, Fiorentino glanced out at the ocean, beautiful and terrifying, and thought of his family. Leonardo, Isabella, Benvolio, Gian, Cirocco; they were the reasons he lived. Cirocco had proved to be a loyal friend to him. How would he react, with his affection, to Fiorentino leaving multiple times a year?

"Let me discuss it with him when we get home," he said; "For now, I think I finally see Florence."


	31. The Night Before the Missions Grow

The days dragged on, and so too did their return journey.

Florence had proved fruitless. Where it was bare and held no advantage, they had travelled to Rome, then once more Venice, only to find that no man could help them gather information on Savonarola.

The horses let out great whinnies under the hot Italian sun. Fiorentino, hands clasped on his reins and head bowed, thought back to the people they had met, the lives destroyed by their hands, and wondered if one day he would meet some faulty idol that would punish him for his blood's doing.

"Toscana," Ezio purred when he saw the great mountains beyond, grey and hazy, swathed by clouds; "It's been two months since we were home. Do you miss it, Fee?"

The man shrugged; "I miss the smell of books with bent spines, and the laughter of children floating through the air."

"You miss our Monteriggioni, then. Have I ever told you the first time I went there? Vieri ambushed us just as we came in – like a snake, he chose to stab us with his fangs when we weren't expecting it."

"Is that not strategy?" Fee asked; "I can't count the amount of times we've done the same things."

"We fight for honour, Fee. They? For their own gain. How can men who would betray each other over Florins be expected to make the world fair? We assassins know it's impossible; there has to be a revolution. We have to overthrow them, and bring the Templars' war down with their hides."

The muscular black steed Fiorentino rode on flourished its hooves in the air. He fancied the thing had a liking for Ezio's mare, and wherever possible would display acts of dominance, which might or might not have meant he would be thrown off and left to trawl the rest of the way.

"Leonardo would have got your letter by now, no?"

"Yes," Fee said as he fought to regain control; "I hope he's managed to read it. I mentioned we were giving up the search and returning."

Ezio fixed him with a look that murmured quiet rebuke, an eyebrow raised and a wise glint in his eyes in which Fiorentino could almost see himself reflected, younger and more frightened than he felt now.

"Not giving up, nipote. Never 'giving up.' We've hit the bottom of the well for information, and have to wait until it replenishes."

He shrugged; "Let's carry on, yes? There's much to be done before we end this war."

Leonardo had spent a day in the workshop, pouring once more over his latest work. It had been difficult for him to get used to Fee not being there. Though he had Gian, and now even Benvolio peering into every crevice, he felt as if he had lost something again; something irreplaceable without which he couldn't muster his 'flare.'

That, and he worried. He worried that he would wake and hear news that Fiorentino had been executed. He worried he would hear the gruesome details of an ambush in which his son was slaughtered. He worried that, one night, when all was quiet and still, and he was expecting his Fee to return with wounds aplenty, instead there would be a coffin pulled in by two doleful horses where, inside, the man would lie cold and grey.

A father's worry was often tempered by his wife's comfort, but he had none. Never had he thought about taking a wife, not even for appearance's sake. He was almost wishing he had now. Without one, he felt as if he were facing a great abyss by himself, and if Fiorentino were to die he was bound to fling himself head first into it with no thought to where it led.

"Maestro?"

He was distracted from his thoughts. Leonardo found he had completely stopped painting, and the light hue of blue he had on his brush had dripped to his shoe.

"Ah, merda!" he muttered to himself; "Leonardo, stupido idiota!"

"You have a letter," Gian thrust it onto the table beside the artist. It was filled with all manner of scalpels, glazes, equipment and razors, and yet despite it Leonardo never had what he needed to work. It had become a running joke in the Villa.

The artist took it without hesitation. Tearing it open, the insides made him want to both leap for joy and sink in misery, for the tone was looking towards the future and Fee's return, yet bleak in the same breath.

_Dear Father;_

_I find once more my energy failing me. To be a friend to fate, I have to accept its will, and yet I can do no more than wish it were not so._

_We have uncovered no news on Savonarola, and I suspect we will soon return. Ezio has grown bored with travelling. I have convinced him to come home, if only for a time, and introduce himself to all the young children he has never met, yet revere him as a hero in ancient times._

_So, onwards we go, back to dear Monteriggioni, where my heart grows weary. Have I done Fate some wrong, Father? I have done better service than to be slighted thus. Were it in my blood to shout and fight, perhaps it would not make such a meal of me._

_It pains me to think we will be remembered as villains who killed great men, and the Templars, great men killed by villains. Must we be so quiet with our underground war? Surely there are those out there willing to join us – those out there willing to take my place, and leave me to research behind the scenes? Must my blood dictate to me where I can and cannot go, like the great salmon in countries foreign to us, or the eagles when their eggs grow?_

_I must finish now. This has made me melancholy. I will return to you in higher spirits, Father. Please, expect me to give to you some leather notebooks; I found quite the quaint bookshop in our travels and count it as a personal victory. _

_Cordiali nella fede:_

_Fiorentino da Vinci._

_(Ezio has been insisting I take up another physical hobby. Please stop this atrocity when we return, I beg of you.)_

He laughed. Such was the humour of Fiorentino's phrasing that he could almost imagine the eye roll from him when Ezio spoke, and how he would smile in fondness at Ezio's misinterpretations. Say what he liked about Fee, he had definitely gained the da Vinci spirit.

"My son is coming home," he said to Gian; "Won't you go and tell Mario, hm?"


End file.
